Life With the Dead
by random shoes
Summary: In D.C. on slayer business, Buffy crosses paths with the FBI. Pairings? You'll have to read to find out. Post "The Death of the Queen Bee."
1. The Doppelganger in the Suit I

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author: **random shoes**  
Rating:** T **  
Disclaimer: **I own none of it, except my stupid title.**  
Timeline/Spoilers:** April 2010, post "The Death of the Queen Bee" (don't even mention season 6 to me), so obviously post "Chosen" and "Not Fade Away." I'm ignoring the Buffy S8 comics for the most part (I have yet to finish them), but "After the Fall" did happen, although I doubt much will come up in the way of spoilers. Expect major "Part in the Sum of the Whole" spoilers.  
**Author's Note:** My first fic! Please let me know how I'm doing!

_The Doppelganger in the Suit_

Buffy had blood on her hands. She hated how used to that she was. She'd wiped her hands on her jeans, but still it was there, a faint rusty smudge, and the smell. That smell was so many of her memories: graveyards and hospital beds, the breath of an enemy, a lover. She knew its taste too, mingled with fear, sex, and the way it slowly moved from persistent ooze to sticky mess to crusty coating, soaking through her clothes and turning them into brittle, flash-frozen versions of things she'd once loved. There wasn't one person she loved whose blood she hadn't felt drying between her fingers. Tonight the blood was that of a stranger, but really what did it matter? Some died because of her, some in spite of her, but they all left their bloody mark. Her hands smelled of monkey bars and recess. It had always been like this.

She wasn't usually this broody. Not anymore, anyway, it was only that tonight was one of those nights when they all died. Six of them, bodies thrown around the warehouse like dirty clothes. It bothered her, but she was grateful for that. She could still care. Buffy let herself feel it for a moment, then shook it off. It was a fine line between caring too much and too little, but she was an experienced tightrope walker.

Around the corner, onto another dark, depressing street. Before she died (permanently), would she know every creepy warehouse district from L.A. to Beijing? It seemed likely. Twenty-nine and she was already well on her way. _Twenty-nine_. And she'd never imagined she'd live past eighteen. _Life's a bitch. And then you die. And then your friends bring you back to life. Twice._ Buffy smiled a little. She no longer carried even a drop of resentment towards Willow and the others. She'd lost that a long time ago. But it was more than that: somehow, somewhere along the way, she'd learned to be grateful for her best friend's actions. Buffy was still here, and, unbelievably, she _wanted_ to be.

But there were more pressing, if less happy-making things to think about. She was in D.C. because of a spike in vampire activity in the area. One of the two over-worked local slayers had nearly gotten herself killed and so Buffy had come down with Rona and Vi to help out and investigate. It was odd; Washington D.C. was usually pretty devoid of demon activity. New York, a much more popular destination, was relatively close, and Buffy suspected vampires weren't big fans of politicians. She thought she remembered Spike making a joke about their blood tasting funny...

There was someone following her. She didn't know how long the someone had been there, and she decided to give herself a stern mental lecture about over-confidence, just as soon as she dealt with this someone. Or this something. She hoped it was a something; if it was a something, she could stab the something and then go home to a nice warm shower. If it was a someone, then there'd be questions, talking, threats, and the possibility of prisoners and late night calls to Giles and research and...great. Only one way to find out.

Buffy turned a corner, sped up, and ducked into a narrow alley. A moment later, a man came around the corner. He stopped at the edge of a pool of light and glanced around, confused, alert. And then he was looking at her, and she saw his face clearly, and she tensed, relaxed, tensed again. She stepped out of the alley, into the light.

"God, Angel, why can't you just walk up to a girl and say 'hi' like everyone else?"

"What?" He looked rather adorably confused, mouth half open, face scrunched up—wait, were those wrinkles?

She was in front of him in under a second, without breathing or thinking, reaching up to touch his face...

He pushed her hand away, hard, and jumped backwards, reaching for his hip.

"Step back, miss. FBI." He pulled out his wallet, flashed a badge.

Buffy couldn't seem to make sense of anything. It was Angel but it—wasn't. It wasn't Angel. Not Angel. It couldn't be him; the hand she'd touched had been warm. She blinked, focusing her eyes on the man in front of her. He was wearing a suit, and his hair was...different, and, did that actually say "Cocky"? _Not Angel. So, so not Angel._ His hand was on his gun, she realized. She really hated guns.

"Um," she said stupidly, "FBI?"

"Yes. Special Agent Seeley Booth. I need to ask you a few questions."

She stared at him.

"Miss?"

_Miss._ It seemed weird, him calling her Miss. He sounded a little like Angel.

_Snap out of it, Buffy! It's not him. For one, he would never wear that belt buckle._

"Right. Um, questions?" His hand was still on his gun. She wondered if she'd have to take it away from him.

"Yeah, questions. For starters, I'd like to know what you were doing in that warehouse."

_Oops. How was she supposed to answer that one?_

"Uh, I, I was trying to...I saw someone get dragged in there, I..." She couldn't come up with anything. It didn't help that he was looking at her, all suspicious, with those chocolatey, Angel-eyes.

"Right. Okay, I'm gonna need to take you in for questioning."

Buffy sighed. The last thing she needed right now was the freaking FBI on her back, but there was no way she was getting dragged into some government building for "questioning."

"Sorry, that doesn't really work for me."

His eyebrows went up. So did his gun. "I'm not asking. Either you come in willingly, or I arrest you on suspicion of murder."

Buffy had his gun in under two seconds. Not-Angel looked like he was trying to figure out what had just happened. Buffy examined the gun. The minute she looked away from him, Not-Angel darted towards her, but she dodged him easily.

"Does this thing even have, like, bullets? How do you get them...out?"

She looked up at him. His face was an odd combination of hostility, confusion, and the slightest bit of amusement.

"You wanna get the bullets _out_?" He was watching the gun, which she was pointing loosely in his direction, just to make sure he didn't try to jump her again.

"Well, yeah. I don't want anyone to get _shot_."

That shut him up for a moment, then, "What's your name?"

Buffy smiled, still focused on disarming the stupid thing.

"I don't mean to be rude, but if I tell you that I'll end up on some FBI wanted list or something, and that can only end in badness. God, I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I knew more about guns."

"You pull the round out from the bottom."

"Ah. Ha!" She held up the offending object in triumph, then slid it into her jacket pocket. Buffy looked uncertainly at the gun. "I really should watch more movies." She tossed the now useless weapon back to Not-Angel. He looked down at it, back at her, replaced it in its holster.

"See ya," she said. Neither of them moved. _He looked so much like..._

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get the jump on me?"

She laughed. "What, macho FBI feelings upset by getting one-upped by a girl? Don't sweat it. I've got a few unfair advantages."

"What—"

"Sorry, not really in a sharing mood."

"Look, whatever your name is, if you didn't murder anyone—"

"I didn't murder anyone."

"...then you might be able to help me catch the people who did. Just tell me what you saw. If you're afraid of someone, I can protect you..."

Buffy giggled. "Protect me? That's sweet, but I don't need protection. And if I did, what makes you think you'd be any help? I took _your_ gun, didn't I?" _On the other hand, the protect-her thing? Very Angel._

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. There was a siren in the distance. After a moment, Buffy realized where that siren was probably headed.

"Whoops, that's my cue to disappear." And she did.

••••••••••••••••••••

A few streets away, she slowed to a walk. Would she have to call Giles right away? It seemed too big a coincidence, meeting an Angel-look-alike, the fact that'd he'd been following her, the fact that it was _her_. But, she reflected, weirder things had happened to her. Much weirder. Shower first, she decided. Giles could wait.


	2. The Doppelganger in the Suit II

**Title: **Life with the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
****Rating: **T (language only, at least right now)**  
****Disclaimer: **Joss is the boss. Give him your money.**  
****Author's Note: **Yesterday was me birthday! Yes, I am talking like a pirate (or possibly Kendra?). No, I don't know why. Anyway, in celebration I present...dead bodies. Cheery.

* * *

"Six victims, four female, two male, all in their twenties and thirties. I can't determine cause of death conclusively until we get back to the lab, but these five look like they died from blood loss—puncture wounds in each of their necks, looks like they hit the carotid artery. The newest of them is extremely pale, and the way the older ones are decomposing suggests major blood loss—"

"Right. They bled out. So where's the blood?"

Cam glanced around the warehouse, then back at Booth. She shrugged. "I have no idea."

"You think they were killed somewhere else?"

Cam looked skeptical. "Maybe. But the victims died at different times—about a week between the oldest and the newest."

"And why would the murderer kill them somewhere else, bring them back here, and then leave them lying around for anyone to find?"

"Exactly. I think they were killed here."

Booth felt his stomach begin to tighten. He didn't like the direction this was heading.

"Which brings us back to my original question: where's the blood?"

"The only explanation is that someone intentionally, uh, collected it."

Booth closed his notebook. He wasn't having a good night. First he'd lost his gun to some absolutely _tiny_ blonde woman, and now he had a crazy blood-letting serial killer on his hands, and the impossibly fast blonde woman was his number one suspect, and he didn't know her name or have any idea how to find her, and had been too embarrassed to tell anyone about her yet, which meant he was going to be forced to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Hacker before he could start looking for her, and...

"Seeley?"

"What?"

"You had a little space-out there."

"Sorry, I was just wondering what this sicko could possibly want with that much blood."

Cam shrugged. "Yeah, I'm just going to let you figure that out."

"That's very generous of you, Camille."

She snorted.

"What about the last victim?"

"Her? What you see is what you get. Essentially, her throat's been ripped out. No blood missing on that one."

"Yeah, great, no blood missing. I'm gonna go see what Hodgins has for me."

He crossed the warehouse, surveying the carnage. Five of the bodies had been tossed into one corner, but the sixth one was slumped on the ratty couch, now soaked and spattered with blood. It was a young woman—no older than twenty-five—and she had died only a few hours ago. He was pretty sure he'd heard her scream.

•••••••••••••

He had been on his way home when the call had come through: "suspicious activity." He was close by, so he took it. He should have learned by now that taking calls out of the kindness of his heart never ended well. Last time he'd done that, he'd been blown up by Santa. Although, that _had_ ended in Bones undressing him...

Dispatch had sent him to an abandoned warehouse. He assumed it was no big deal, teenagers throwing a party, drunk squatters, nothing that couldn't be handled by a badge and a little fear.

Fear. That was what he heard as he drove up to the warehouse. The scream had him out of the car and sprinting towards the building in an instant, nearly two decades worth of instinct and training kicking in smoothly, gun out, adrenaline fueling a tight control, slow motion and fast forward, routine and terrifying. _Do what you have to. Get there in time. _He didn't. Glassy eyes and blood greeted him when he threw open the rusty metal door. The warehouse was empty and eerily quiet, no sound except the crunch of...

Adrenaline again, across the wide space and out the door, running silently after the footsteps.

•••••••••••••

Hodgins was squatting in front of the couch, scooping dust off the grimy floor, a look of indecent excitement firmly plastered to his face. Booth felt a little like hitting him. That scream...it had made her real to him, too real, and Hodgins' enthusiasm annoyed him more than usual.

"Got anything for me?" he snapped.

Hodgins didn't seem to notice his tone. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I've got something very, very strange here."

"What, dust? I've got plenty of that in my apartment, thanks."

Hodgins stood up, holding the vial out towards Booth. "Not dust, _ash_."

"Ash?"

"Yeah, _ash_."

"...so?"

"So there's no burn marks, no fire pit, no evidence of anything burning, but there's ash _everywhere_. There's probably several pounds of the stuff."

Booth squinted at the ground, realized what he was doing, and quickly stopped. "So what does that mean?"

Hodgins smiled that utterly happy smile that Booth knew came right before—

"I have _no_ idea."

"Wonderful. I've got blood that should be here and isn't, and ash that shouldn't be here and is."

Booth could swear he saw Hodgins' ears perk up, like a cat who hears a mouse...

"Blood?"

"Yeah, Cam says the vics died of blood loss, but we can't find any blood."

There it was. The crazy glint in the scruffy squint's eye, the glint that meant this was going to be one of those cases, the glint that came right before the man transformed from scientist into nut.

"What, Hodgins?"

"Well, come on. Blood loss, ash, two small punctures _in the neck, _what does that add up to?"

"I have no idea."

"Use your imagination, Booth!"

"I'd prefer not to." But he had a sinking suspicion he knew where this was going.

Hodgins leaned in, glancing around conspiratorially before whispering: "Vampires, Booth. Vampires."

Booth closed his eyes. This was not what he needed tonight.

"Do you ever listen to yourself?"

"People see vampires all the time, Booth. Most of them don't live much long after they do," he nodded toward the pile of bodies, "but sometimes people get away. The truth's everywhere on the internet, you just have to know where to look."

"Yes, because crazy people on the internet are always telling the truth."

"Come on, it's the only thing that makes any sense," Hodgins argued, still whispering. "The victims drained of their blood, the puncture wounds, and—"

"And it's not possible that we're dealing with some lunatic with a vampire obsession?"

"Sure, except that still doesn't explain the ash."

Booth tried very hard to stay calm. He mostly succeeded. "Well, that's your job, isn't it? Find me a scientific explanation for the ash."

"I was just trying to help."

"Well, don't—don't do that anymore."

Booth stalked away. _Vampires_. Un-fucking-believable. Apparently Hodgins had gotten crazier post-Angela. Vampires? Really? At least his conspiracy theories had always involved humans in the past.

He waved goodbye to Cam, nodded towards the officer at the door, and headed for his car. He needed this day to be over. Tomorrow he'd deal with the missing blood, the ash, the blonde. _The blonde_. At the very least she was an eye witness, at most...well...he didn't really think she'd murdered all those people. She'd held the gun like it was a dead animal, disarmed it, and then given it back to him. She could easily have hurt him (how had she moved so fast?) but her only interest had been protecting herself. Still, she had said some weird things (something about an angel?), and if she was crazy in some way...

It made more sense than vampires. He needed to find her.


	3. The Ash in the Lab

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
****Rating: **T for the story, probably K+ for this chapter though.**  
Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters. If I did it would be more work and less fun. **  
****Author's Note: **Sorry about the wait. I don't expect this will be normal. Holidays and friends and trips and sleep and life got in the way. I actually wrote about three fourths of this before Christmas. But what can you do...  
PS Did I over-identify with Booth just a little? I'll never tell.

* * *

_The Ash in the Lab_

Buffy woke with sun in her eyes and a nagging feeling that she needed to get up. She turned over instead. She was clean, warm, and alone, and she was going to stay that way until the last possible minute. Her eyes closed, muscles relaxing slowly back towards sleep, dreamy images flickering through her mind. Dark, narrowed eyes stared into hers, amusement and need dancing in their shadows. Powerful muscles tensed, ready for action, ready to pounce. Something tingled. His hand came out, elegant fingers wrapping around...a gun. That was wrong.

Buffy sat up. She remembered now. Not-Angel and the FBI and the caught-leaving-a-warehouse-full-of-dead-bodies-and-now-possibly-going-to-get-arrested-for-murder thing.

Out of bed and plodding into the bathroom, Buffy began to plan her day. First order of business, call Giles. Next, wake up the slayerettes, drag said girls across town to the local slayer's apartment, and give everyone the run-down on last night's incident. She hoped Beth, the resident slayer not currently in the hospital, had some experience dealing with FBI-types. She majorly sucked at dealing with law enforcement. The Sunnydale Police Department had had a pretty clear idea of what a vampire was, and had done their best to avoid them, and, most of the time, her. As for the agent, should she mention the whole he-looks-like-my-undead-ex-boyfriend thing to the other slayers? She preferred not to talk about Angel unless absolutely necessary, and anyway it wasn't like any of them had ever _seen_ him...

She dressed slowly, avoiding the reproachful gaze of the phone. She hadn't said his name to Giles in years, but she knew the conversation would be much with the awkward. After she redid her hair the third time, there was nothing to do but bite the bullet. Although, biting a bullet didn't seem to be a useful activity, and wouldn't that hurt your teeth, and...

"Screw this," she said aloud, slamming down the phone. "I'm getting a muffin."

•••••••••••••••••

Two hours later Buffy had checked off everything on her list except the dreaded phone call. It wasn't like she needed Giles anymore, well, except for researchy stuff. She was her own woman, the leader of what amounted to an army, and perfectly capable of solving her own bizarre mysteries. Not to mention she had managed to navigate an unfamiliar city, in a rental car, with only the two wrong turns and the one, um, abrupt stop. Vi had yelped, spilling her latte on the upholstery. Rona had glared at her from the front seat, and then offered to drive. Buffy's (unfortunate) pride wouldn't allow this, but they'd survived all right.

Beth's apartment was crappy, although the neighborhood was nice enough. Even after almost seven years, the COS (Council of Slayers, Buffy had immediately ditched the word 'watcher') could barely afford to pay working slayers enough to live on. Still, Buffy had never been paid at all, so she didn't tolerate whining well. If they didn't like it, they could spend their days flipping patties at their local Doublemeat Palace, like she'd had to.

They parked a few blocks down (would she ever master parallel parking?) and buzzed in to the apartment.

Beth opened the door and invited them in with a gesture.

She was olive-skinned and tall, with cat eyes and a too-big nose. Her dark hair was braided down her back, her clothes practical and unobtrusive. The antithesis of Buffy.

The younger woman gestured at a bowl of cereal "I was just finishing breakfast. You guys hungry?"

Buffy shook her head "We made a Starbucks run." Rona and Vi, however, were already reaching for the box of cereal.

Buffy rolled her eyes. Slayer metabolism or something. Did that mean hers was slowing down...?

"You patrol last night?"

Buffy sat down across from Beth. "Yeah. Stumbled on a nest."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am you came out here. I was getting pretty tired going out every night."

Buffy smiled. "You're welcome, although this _is_ pretty much my job. By the way, how's Maddy doing?"

"Better. She says every time the nurses check on her they get these wide-eyed looks."

"Yeah. Slayer healing, not something most medical professionals are prepared for."

"I'll bet." Beth looked down at her bowl. "If, that is, I think she'll be street-ready in a week or so, if you three need to move on."

Clearly, Beth was too proud to ask her to stay.

Buffy was careful to keep her tone light. "Well, there's still the question of why DC is suddenly a vamp paradise. We really can't leave until we've got a read on that mystery. Maddy should get some rest, and anyway there's no way you two can handle the city by yourselves right now. And," Buffy's voice turned sheepish, "I may have kinda sorta got the FBI on my trail."

Beth, Rona, and Vi all looked up from their cereal. Beth's eyebrows stretched upwards. "The FBI?"

"Yeah. I was on my way home after I took out that nest, and some guy was following me. Turned out to be FBI, tried to ask me about the warehouse, got a little antsy. Ended up taking his gun. My guess he's not too pleased with me. Also, if he hadn't already, by now he's been inside that warehouse and found six very dead bodies."

Everyone stared at her.

She looked at Beth. "Any ideas for dealing with interfering government guys?"

"Not really, no."

"Great. Oh, and those dead bodies? We're gonna need to find them."

* * *

Cam had made him send the bodies to the Jeffersonian. Booth hadn't wanted to, had even suggested sending them to the FBI morgue. "No bones, no Bones," he'd reminded her.

Cam hadn't been impressed. "_I'm_ still the best in my business. Certainly better than anyone you've got."

And so here he'd come. Against every instinct he had. Giving in to every instinct he had. Dear God, when had he lost his mind?

He was staring at the entrance to the museum. He'd been staring for a good five minutes now. The security guard, a man he didn't recognize, was clearly starting to get nervous. Time to bite the bullet. Bullets...she'd taken his bullets...

He had to go in. Blonde girls to find, murders to solve, people to arrest.

Booth took a step forward, stopped. He'd been in wars, for Christ's sake! He'd run towards men aiming guns at him, been shot at, bombed, tried to reason with Zack Addy, and on one memorable occasion been blown up by a refrigerator. He could do this! He could!

The guard was walking over to him now. Good. Now he'd be forced to go inside.

Booth smiled at the man. "Sorry to worry you. Special Agent Booth, FBI." He flipped open his badge. "Got a little lost in thought."

"Thanks sir. Can't be too careful nowadays."

"No, no you can't." He started towards the stairs. The carved lions seemed to be laughing at him.

"Do you know where you're going?"

"Yeah, I know where I'm going." _Towards pain and heartbreak and impossibly intelligent blue __eyes, _he thought.

•••••••••••••••••

Brown eyes, not blue, greeted him as he entered the Medico-Legal Lab. Booth felt part of him relax. He couldn't see _her_ anywhere.

"Where the hell have you been?" Okay, so not so much of a relief.

"Doing my job." He had been, just, not _all_ of it. Not the part that required him to be in the same room with Temperance Brennan.

Angela's eyes narrowed. "No, I think Agent Perrota has been doing your job."

He tried to act offended. "It was only one case. I needed to catch up on paperwork, and Agent Olson needed help on that series of bank heists." Only because he'd offered it, but Angela didn't need to know that.

Angela studied him. He really hated that. Sometimes, when she did that, he couldn't help feeling that she was reading his thoughts...

"Did something happen at the reunion? Between you and Bren?"

At least he could answer that honestly. "No, Angela. Nothing happened." His voice was flat, expressionless.

She gave it up. For now. "Well, whatever your deal is, get over it. Bren's missed you."

He didn't look at her. "I have to see Cam."

Booth walked away, focusing all his willpower on not stomping.

The anger was back again. The terrible, pointless anger that he'd been doing his level best to keep miles away from Bones. It was unfair to her. She probably had no idea what she'd asked of him.

•••••••••••••••••

It wasn't that she'd said no. He recognized her right to say no, even if he didn't believe she was right, even if she was hurting herself as well as him, even if, he couldn't help but think, she'd never said she didn't want him, never said she didn't love him. No, it was what she'd done after that mattered now. After she'd kissed him back for just a moment, then pushed him away and taken all the air with her. After that desperate _"I don't know how, I don't know how." _After he'd let go of the urge to say, _I'll teach you_, and finally, finally given up the five-year battle he'd been waging, because he knew now that he would never be able prove to her that he could love her in thirty, or forty, or fifty years, could never prove to her that he wouldn't leave her, because he didn't _know_ it. He believed it. And that would never, could never, be enough for her. For all that, he couldn't hate her. But then, she'd turned to him, tears in her eyes, g_oddamn her,_ and asked two things of him. _"Please don't look so sad," _she'd said, and then, "_can we still work together?" _That was it. The moment when his heart really, truly broke. Because she was asking him to pretend. _Please don't look so sad. This never happened. Keep being just my partner. Pretend I didn't break your heart._ And in that instant he knew that whether or not she loved him or wanted him, she needed him. She was terrified he'd leave her, like everyone had left her, and so she was asking him to live his life in limbo, and he was going to say yes.

"_But I gotta move on. I gotta find someone who's gonna love me in thirty years, or forty, or fifty."_ It was the healthy response. He knew it was the healthy response. And so he convinced himself he could do it, could move on. He would move on.

Yeah. That was bullshit. He figured that out quick. Seeing her as she'd been in high school—_"You were Wednesday Addams!"—_the weirdo everyone was just a little afraid of, the odd, brilliant, outsider. God help him, he'd loved her more. And then, the prom she never went to, the awkward slow dance she never had. She looked so happy in his arms, and the word _husband _was ringing in his ears, and how could he ever feel this way about anyone else?

So yes, he could find someone who would love him for thirty or forty or fifty years. The bitch was, could he ever love her back?

•••••••••••••••••

Cam had her hands deep in someone's chest when Booth walked in. It wasn't the girl.

"Diggin' out hearts?"

Cam looked up. "What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. Sounded good in my head. Got anything for me?"

"Not much. Same as the others. Punctures in the neck, blood loss, minimal defensive wounds. This one's got a fractured finger and a few bruises on his arms. Nothing internal."

Booth took a moment to adjust himself to the words that were about to come out of his mouth. "Check the neck for DNA."

"What?"

"Hodgins thinks the killer might have a...vampire obsession."

"So you thought maybe he..."

"Yeah. Or she."

Cam looked surprised. "I would've thought—that is, this seems like more of a...guy thing."

"We shouldn't make assumptions. There's no reason to think that the killer is male or female."

Cam looked even more surprised. "That sounded a lot like Dr. Brennan."

"No, it sounded like a good cop." Or one who had more information than he was willing to share at the moment. He really needed to swallow his dignity and come clean.

"She's at lunch right now, you know. With Andrew Hacker."

And just like that, all thoughts of the case went out the window. _At lunch with Hacker? Less than a month after... And why Andrew? He wasn't particularly attractive...he was funny, but it wasn't as if she got any of his jokes...not that she got Booth's either but..._

"She should be back soon. If you want to talk to her."

Cam was now roasting him with the same mind-reading gaze that Angela had used on him. He really hated smart people.

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm gonna go check on Bug Guy. Call me if you find any DNA."

He practically ran to Hodgins' work station. He needed to get out of the building before Bones got back from her...date.

"Anything on the ash?"

Hodgins looked altogether too pleased with himself. "Yes. DNA. _Human_ DNA."

Oh no. Not this again. "So...the killer burned some of the victims?"

"Where? How? Completely reducing the human body to ash requires a furnace that can reach temperatures of nine hundred degrees Celsius."

Booth looked at him. "And in American...?"

"About...one thousand, six hundred and...fifty degrees Fahrenheit. The point is, it would be impossible to reach those temperatures in a huge, open warehouse, not to mention that if you somehow could, more things would burn than just the body. Well, actually, bodies. The DNA came from multiple people. I'm not sure exactly how many yet. More than five."

Booth took a moment to sort all this out. "So could the killer have stolen the ashes from a crematorium and spread them around the room?"

Hodgins' face fell. Booth felt a jolt of triumph. Did he just succeed in killing the vampire theory?

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"Can you check local crematoriums for me?"

"For what?"

"Uh, stolen ashes? Suspicious activity? I don't know, you're the squint. Anything that might help us."

He could escape now. "Call me if you find anything. I'm going back to headquarters, see if I can get IDs from missing persons."

"Will do." Hodgins was already back to doing...whatever it was he'd been doing to the ash. Booth hurried out of the room.

She was blocking his escape.

"Brennan's due back in ten minutes."

Damn. "I've gotta get back to the office, Angela."

"Bull."

The anger had now found a new target. "What do you want from me, Angela? What? What business is it of yours?" His voice was dangerously close to shouting.

Angela's face registered shock, hurt. Booth found, to his surprise, that he didn't care.

"Leave. Me. Alone." He sidestepped Angela and headed for the door. She didn't try to stop him.

"Why can't you two let yourselves be happy?"

He stared straight ahead, and didn't say what he was thinking. There was no point.

_Ask Bones._

* * *

The Jeffersonian at night had a hum to it. Instruments, florescent lights, air conditioning. All too soft to be heard amidst the bustle and chatter of its daytime occupants, but still there, just skirting the edge of audible noise, the building's version of a heartbeat, comforting and constant. Temperance Brennan usually loved that sound. She knew that when she heard it—at that indefinable moment when the softest noise turned sharp and immediate—that was the time she could really begin to work. No living people to distract her from the dead.

Tonight it was an unidentified World War I soldier, one of hundreds she had been working through for years. He was Caucasian and very young—approximately sixteen—but she had not discovered anything else. He had not broken any bones in childhood, nor been noticeably malnourished. His skeleton was absurdly pristine, excepting the small nicks on his ribs, the only remaining evidence of a bullet that had almost certainly pierced his right lung. She could find nothing else.

She hated to admit it, but she was bored with the soldier. His bones refused to tell her anything that she could run against the database, and even if she did find his identity, it likely would not matter much. Any family he had living almost certainly knew what had happened to him, generally if not specifically. There was no one to blame, no one to comfort, no one who needed her. And that was what really bothered her. She'd become attached—addicted—to the immediacy of murder, and she couldn't remember when this, her job, her _life_, had become less important.

Unable to glean anything useful, and unable to reach the familiar trance, she was becoming restless and moody. Restless because she was getting nowhere, and moody because, well, Dr. Temperance Brennan did not get restless.

Her mind would not focus. Would not set itself to the task. The hum was getting louder and she was not sure if she liked it anymore.

A crash broke the air, as loud as a symbol in the silent lab. In an instant, the hum was gone, and Temperance was sprinting towards Cam's dark room, heart in her throat and excitement in her belly. She could hear smaller crashes, shuffling feet, even what might have been a grunt, and as the room came into view she saw movement. The noises stopped as she skidded to a halt in the doorway. The lights were on, sensors triggered by the motion. Standing in the doorway, she could clearly see...

"Booth? What are you doing?"

He was standing in a cloud of dust (didn't Cam clean her office?), looking at her with a wariness that made no sense.

He slipped something into his pocket. "I—I'm uh...Booth?"

Panic replaced Brennan's confusion in a heartbeat. "Booth, are you hallucinating again? If you've seen anything, anything that shouldn't be there, we need to get you to the hospital. The tumor might be back."

He was standing unnaturally still, his face closed, the smallest hint of confusion in his knitted brows. "Excuse me?"

"The tumor, Booth. You need to be checked out by a doctor as soon as possible. If there's any possibility—"

"I believe you have mistaken me for someone else," he said.

That was when she finally looked at him. He was dressed all in black, including a long leather coat she'd never seen before, and his hair was sticking up a lot more than usual, and something was missing from his face.

Acid was churning in her stomach. "Booth?" she whispered, uncertainly.

"No," he said and then, after a moment, "Angel. My name is Angel." And then his mouth closed, and stayed closed, and Brennan realized with blank clarity what had been bothering her about his stillness. He wasn't breathing.


	4. Conversations With Crazy People

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes  
**Disclaimer:** I own none of these characters, and am not responsible for their actions. I want to make this very clear, so no one blames me for "The Doctor in the Photo."  
**Spoilers: **Several references to "The Proof in the Pudding" (for some reason it kept coming up). Also, again for reasons that are not clear to me, I have stolen a joke from "Welcome to the Hellmouth," the BtVS pilot. Well, the word random IS in my name...**  
****Author's Note: **The author has very little to note. She appreciates reviews in the way an addict appreciates a hit, and would bake you all cookies if she could.  
PS Know what's fun? Eggs and bacon at two a.m. Try it sometime. But don't set your oven mitt on fire.

* * *

_Conversations With Crazy People_

Seeley Booth had been having a bad night before the alarm. Piles of paperwork and too much time to think. After—well, he sure didn't have too much time to think.

The alarm meant a security breach—someone had broken into the building. In all the years he'd been with the FBI that alarm had only gone off once before, when some crazy lady yelling about aliens smashed the front windows with a baseball bat. You pretty much had to be crazy to try to break _into_ the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

He shouldn't have been surprised.

He was.

She was in the basement, surrounded by security, their guns drawn. For someone with six or seven firearms aimed at her torso, she didn't seem particularly scared. Her expression was more along the lines of vaguely worried, possibly with a touch of impatient annoyance.

A few of the guards glanced at him as he entered, then turned back, recognizing him.

"Turn around and face the wall."

The blonde woman considered the order for a moment, then did as the guard asked. This man was older, and familiar-looking, but Booth couldn't remember his name. The guard holstered his gun and cautiously approached her.

"I don't have a gun," she said. Booth believed her.

The guard patted her down, prolonging the experience more than was strictly necessary.

"Perv," the woman muttered. He pretended not to hear.

Booth had just decided it was time to take over the situation when the guard made a small noise of triumph. He reached into the woman's coat pocket and pulled out...

"What the hell?" the man said. Several people made similar, simultaneous comments. He was holding up a small length of wood, sharpened at one end. Booth felt his stomach sink in recognition. It was going to be a long night.

Booth stepped into the circle of people. "Excuse me, Mr...?"

"Olson. Robert Olson." Olson was removing a wallet and a cell phone from Mysterious Blonde Woman's pockets.

"Mr. Olson. I'm Special Agent Booth. I believe this woman is a person of interest in a homicide investigation."

She made a startled sound and tried to turn. Olson pushed her back into the wall. She said something unintelligible into the wall that sounded like "Nigel."

"Don't move, ma'am," Robert Olson ordered. He was having a grand time play-acting being a cop.

"Could you bring her up to the interrogation rooms? She may know something about those bodies we found yesterday."

Olson looked crestfallen. "It's not exactly procedure, sir..."

He gave him his best I'm-in-charge-and-you're-not look. The guard folded. "Of course, sir. I'll take her up right now."

Booth glanced around. "Why don't a few of you come with us, just in case."

This request startled Olson. After all, she was just some tiny woman. Booth, however, had prior experience with this particular tiny woman.

Olson shrugged, then turned to the group. "Sanders, Cheng, you come with Agent Booth and I. The rest of you search the building. Make sure she doesn't have an accomplice."

"I don't," the woman said, into the wall. Again, absurdly, Booth believed her.

* * *

Brennan's mind had stopped working. _Stopped. _For the first time in her entire life, she was unable to think straight. Fragments of questions swirled around her head. _What did that...?When had he...?...Why could...? How—_How. That was it. _How could this man be alive, conscious, and moving, and yet not be breathing?_ The world snapped back into focus. She had an observation: _this man is not breathing, _and a question: _how can he live without breathing? _She just needed a working hypothesis to test. She would figure this out. She was a scientist.

"Why aren't you breathing?" She sounded calm. She was calm. Mostly.

His eyes went wide. "I—" Then he stopped, blinked, and inhaled. "I'm breathing," he said.

"Yes, you are now. You were not before."

"Yes I was."

"No."

He opened his mouth again, as if to argue, but what he said was, "I need to go."

The man who looked so much like her partner pushed past her, but she grabbed his wrist, pressing her fingers to the soft underside. Nothing. Her world started to tip again, but she righted it. She would file that question away, another problem to solve.

"You also lack a pulse."

He pulled his arm away. "Don't do that."

"You are a medical impossibility Mr. Angel."

"Yeah? Well, goodbye." He darted out the door.

Without his bulk to block her gaze she had a clear view of Cam's office, and the six victims it contained. Five. There were only five. One of the tables was bare. Brennan spun around. The man was nearly out of the lab. She searched, found her target, went to it.

The alarm sounded, satisfyingly violent to her ears. She turned just in time to see the doors of the lab close three feet in front of her mysterious man. He stopped, startled, then stepped back and kicked the glass, hard.

Nothing happened. He kicked it again. Still nothing.

Brennan exited Cam's office and walked sedately towards 'Angel.'

"You can't break the glass."

He was still trying. "Why—" (kick) "—the hell—" (kick) "—not?"

"Well, my partner fired a bullet at it two mouths ago."

This distracted him. "What?"

"They replaced it and now it's two inches thick."

"Wait, why did your partner shoot the doors?"

"Some men who worked for the government shut down the lab. They ordered me and my colleagues to find cause of death for some remains. They wouldn't let anyone in or out until we did."

He smiled, just a little. It caused his resemblance to Booth to greatly increase. "So your partner shot the doors to get in?"

She felt herself smile back. "Yes."

"Doesn't your partner work for the FBI?"

Brennan's wariness returned in full force. "How—how do you know that?"

"You're fairly famous."

"I suppose that is true. Where are the remains?"

"Uh..."

"You couldn't have taken them out of the lab. So, where are they?"

He smiled ruefully at the doors. "I don't suppose there's any chance you'd let me out, is there?"

"No. Law enforcement should be here shortly."

He sighed. "If I explain it, all of it, the body and the breathing and the pulse, will you let me go?"

She thought about it. "If you can prove it."

* * *

No one spoke on the elevator ride. Booth kept catching the woman looking at him, a confused expression on her face, as if she'd lost her car keys. He prided himself on his ability to read people, but he couldn't make the slightest bit of sense out of that look. _She's crazy, _he told himself over and over, _certifiably insane_. It didn't make him feel better.

It wasn't until he'd deposited her in an interview room, retrieved her things from Olson, and closed the door on the curious faces of the three security guards that he finally spoke to her.

"Miss...Summers," he said, and then, glancing up from her California driver's license, "Buffy?"

The look she gave him said _don't make fun of my name_ far better than words.

He sat down across from her. "It's nice to see you again."

She blinked at him. "Yeah, right. Look, I'm having a rough night, so is it possible you could ditch the sarcasm?"

"Well, Miss Summers, last night I caught you fleeing the scene of a six-time homicide, and tonight the nice security officers caught you breaking and entering on Federal property, so until you give me some sort of explanation for your actions, I'm going to be more concerned with how my night's going."

"And how _is_ your night going?"

Booth couldn't suppress a smile. "Terrible, thanks for asking."

"You're welcome."

"So."

"So?"

Booth could feel his blood pressure rising. "So, why were you at that warehouse?"

She shifted in her seat. "Um...no comment?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. This whole situation was maddening, not to mention unorthodox. It may just have been the lack of sleep, but he was seriously considering quitting and letting someone else sort this out.

Instead he tried another tack: draw the crazy into the open. "What were you planning to do with this?" He was holding up the...the stake. That was the only word for it.

She didn't take the bait. "Make a tiny fence?"

Yep. Definitely quitting. Perotta could deal with this.

"Look, am I under arrest? 'Cause if I am, don't I get a phone call?"

Booth realized too late how little attention he'd been paying to the law. "Well, yeah. You broke into FBI headquarters. I'm definitely going to charge you with that."

"So I get a phone call, right? Look, I really need to make a call. Someone could get hurt."

Booth sat up at this. "Are you threatening me?"

She looked surprised. "No! God, so much no. Just let me call? Please?"

He handed her the cell phone. It was that or violence. Besides, he was more than a little curious.

She relaxed. "Thank-you. I know you don't believe me, but I'm the good guys."

Booth didn't say anything. She sighed, stood up, dialed. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed.

After a moment, someone picked up. She turned into the corner.

"Hey, it's Buffy...yeah, a while since we talked...how's Sam?" Her tone was cheerful, almost casual.

"That's great. Listen, I kinda got myself into a jam." Booth snorted.

"I know...I know...I think I'm under arrest."

"You are," Booth said.

"Hey! It's not my fault...FBI headquarters...in DC...yes. _Yes_. I broke in."

Booth looked up. He hadn't expected her to be so up front about that.

"No. I was looking for a—" she looked at Booth, "—a, um...yeah. Thing is, there's a murder investigation now...yeah, agent thinks I did it...uh-huh. A nest...and he got there before...yeah."

Booth was finding it impossible to make sense of any of this. Whoever she was talking to must have a better context for whatever the hell...

"...so could you...? Thanks. I really wasn't looking forward to dealing with...you're a lifesaver. Oh, and Riley? Send me a picture when she's born, okay?"

She flipped the phone closed, dropped it into his outstretched palm, and slid back into her chair.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"That wasn't your lawyer, was it?"

Miss Summers laughed. "No way. An old friend."

Booth was puzzled. "So, are you going to tell me anything? Or should I get you a jail cell for the night?"

She shook her head. "Just—just wait a minute. We'll get this worked out."

"Look lady, you don't seem to realize—"

"—the trouble I'm in? Yeah, I realize. Trust me, on the scale of...troubleness, this ranks pretty low for me."

He didn't know what to make of that. Being arrested by the FBI tended to rank pretty high on the "troubleness" meter for most people. What, exactly, had this woman got up to in her life to be so calm about it?

They had been silent for nearly a minute when she suddenly burst out with, "Are you Irish?"

"What?"

"Is your family Irish?"

Booth's mouth, while open, was having some difficulty forming words. "Wha—why?"

"Nothing, it's just...nothing."

"Miss Summers. It is really in your best interest to tell me the truth."

"I really don't think so."

"Because you killed those people?"

"Because I really hate padded rooms."

"So you're crazy?"

"No, but you'd think I was. You probably already do."

Couldn't argue with her there. "English," he said instead. He didn't know why. "My family's English."

"Are you sure? How far back?"

Apparently, Booth was having this conversation. It made a certain kind of insane sense, like dream logic. "Um, early 19th century? That's when my family immigrated to America."

"Oh." She seemed disappointed. Why in hell was she disappointed? "What about, like, the 1700s?"

"I don't really know. Why are you asking about this?"

"It's just that...you look like someone...someone from that time. I saw...drawings...and...you look exactly alike."

She was lying through her teeth. He could see that easy enough. The question was: why? Of all the things to lie about, this one made the least sense.

"I guess it's just a coincidence," she said. She was wearing that look again, the lost one.

"I guess it is." It probably was, whatever the hell she was really talking about.

She considered that. "I'm pretty sure I don't believe in coincidences."

"No? What about fate?" The dream feeling was back.

Her face went blank at that. It just closed, like a heavy oak door. "No," she said, "No, I don't believe in fate."

* * *

"How long will it take them to get here?"

"What?"

"The police."

Brennan shrugged. "Five minutes maybe."

Angel's eyes were darting around like a cornered animal's. "Then can we go somewhere, more...hidden?"

Brennan watched him cooly. For some reason other people's panic always made her calmer. "Where are the remains?"

"The body's gone. It's ash. And it's still where I left it, more or less."

"That makes no sense."

"Look, can we please get away from the doors? I don't want them to see me."

That was interesting. "Are you wanted in connection with a crime?"

"No!" he looked...offended. "I just..." he growled, low in his throat. The sound made her nervous.

"All right. This way." She walked around the platform and out of sight of the doors. He followed.

"Now," she said, turning to face him, "Why don't you have a pulse? And what do you mean, the body is gone?"

"I..." he cleared his throat. "I'm on the good side, okay?" His eyes pleaded with her, as if he expected her to agree.

"The evidence doesn't support that."

"You really are a scientist, aren't you?"

"What else would I be?"

"Never mind." He took a breath, let it out. Brennan noted that it seemed to calm him. "I don't have a pulse because—because I'm dead."

She frowned. "I don't know what that means."

"I—I died, but I came back. I'm a vampire."

"That—that's impossible." So was not having a pulse.

"Yes," he said, "It is. But here I am."

"I need proof." Brennan's brain was telling her, over and over, that this man was mentally ill. Except—well, he really did not have a pulse.

Angel nodded. "Okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but then something happened. His face became suddenly feral, like a hissing tiger or something from the horror movies she'd loved as a teenager.

Brennan took an involuntary step back. All her lower instincts were telling her to run. She stood her ground.

He was just standing there, blinking at her. His eyes were yellow. She was positive they had been brown before.

Curiosity won over. She stepped forward, reaching out her hand. He didn't shy away.

"May I?" she asked.

He nodded.

She ran her hand lightly over his forehead, feeling the groves, wrinkles, protrusions around the eyes, all impossible, yet solid and real under her hands.

She took her hand away. "Do you have—" she stopped a moment, collected herself. "I believe vampires in fiction generally have extended, sharpened canines."

He opened his mouth. Yes. His teeth had changed. Radically. She couldn't comprehend it, could not imagine how bone could shift and grow in an instant, but there it was. Proof.

"Okay," she said, a little shakily, "what about the remains?"

He shook his head, and the animal face was replaced by the warm brown eyes and handsome features of her partner. A little younger, perhaps, and less...open, but still very disturbing.

"The woman? She was like me. I dusted her."

"You killed her."

"She was already dead."

"Like you are."

"Yes. She would've hurt someone."

"And you won't?"

His eyes closed, opened. "Can we talk about this somewhere else, Dr. Brennan? I gave you proof, and I hear sirens."

Brennan listened. "I don't hear anything."

Annoyance was written in every line of his face. She didn't trust him. She shouldn't trust him. But curiosity killed the canine...

"This way," she said, heading for the janitor's closet.

Angel didn't move. "Where are you going?"

Brennan turned around, and gave him her best mysterious smile. "Secret passageway," she said.

* * *

Booth was staring at Miss Summers in silence, wishing torture was legal, when his phone rang.

"Excuse me," he said, and stepped out of the room.

The three security guards were standing around, watching him curiously. He turned away from them and flipped open his phone.

It was Hacker.

"Do you by any chance have a Miss Buffy Summers in custody?" he asked, without preamble.

"Yes, I do." Booth didn't like where this was going.

"Let her go." And he thought this night couldn't get any worse.

"What? Sir, she's a suspect in a homicide investigation. And she broke into the building."

"Let her go. That's an order. And if she asks you for help, give it to her."

Booth couldn't believe this. He really couldn't believe this.

"Who is she?"

"I can't tell you that Booth, that would be divulging top secret information. I _can_ hint that she's got connections. High up connections."

"Hacker—"

"I'm saying you can trust her Agent Booth. She's on our side. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to sleeping."

Hacker hung up.

Booth stood for a moment, avoiding the gazes of Olson, Sanders, and Cheng, and trying to get his frustrations under control. Then he slowly turned, and reentered the interrogation room.

She was smiling at him. He was really starting to hate this woman.

"You're—you're free to go," he managed to force out.

"Great!" she chirped. "Now, can you tell me where those bodies are?"

That was more than suspicious. He didn't care what Hacker said; he had a responsibility to solve these murders, and he wouldn't allow anyone to contaminate the evidence. If he had to let her go, he would, but that didn't mean he was going to let her out of his sight.

"Okay," he practically growled, "I'll tell you where they are. But I'm coming with you."

She thought about that. "I can live with that," she said. "Where are they?"

"The Jeffersonian Museum."


	5. The Questions in the Quagmire

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes  
**Disclaimer: **Please don't sue me! I just _borrowed_ these characters and forced them to dance for me! I'm not a kidnapper! Where are you taking me? I'm not crazy! I'm not!**  
****Spoilers: **Nope.**  
****Author's Note: **Wanna give me a happy? Tell me what you think. I promise I won't go all evil and kill your fish or anything.  
PS It's Blueberry, just for you, Dot.

* * *

_The Questions in the Quagmire_

"Huh," said Buffy.

Agent Not-Angel came around the corner. "What is it?"

She gestured at the table. "Body's gone."

This, sort of understandably, seemed to upset him.

"What?" He rushed to the empty table. "How..."

She ignored him. She'd just caught sight of the other bodies.

Buffy's legs, not her brain, carried her across the room. The girl's face was oddly peaceful for someone with her throat in shreds, but then, as Buffy knew well, death was nothing if not peace.

This girl, barely Dawn's age, wouldn't have wanted peace. She'd have wanted excitement, adventure. Life.

Agent Booth was barking orders to the assembled cops, something about "body gone missing" and "they must have set off the alarm." She should stop him, save him the trouble of searching for someone whose ashes he was standing in, but all her attention was focused inward.

_She turned away from the girl, huddled and shaking on the couch, turned away for just one moment, but when she turned back he'd already bitten into her neck. That stupid, suicidal vampire, who should have run but instead went after the girl, for no other reason than simple spite. He was dust in ten seconds. The girl was dead in five._

"How did you know her?" his voice was gentle.

Buffy looked up. "I didn't. She just—she looks a little like my sister."

"Oh." He probably didn't believe her. Actually, she wasn't entirely sure if that was the truth or a lie.

Something shifted in Booth's face then. "Look, Miss Summers, I don't know if you're CIA, military, or the goddamn Queen of England, and I don't care. If you know where that body is and aren't telling me, things are going to get real ugly, real fast."

Buffy almost wanted to thank him; he'd pulled her quickly and cleanly out of her little trance-thingy. There were other fish to fry.

Choosing not to respond to his little speech, she walked back to the center of the room and knelt on the floor.

He was getting impatient. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I did. The Queen of England is all wrinkly and old, so I don't know how I feel about that, and I've had some less than stellar experiences with military types, although they're not bad people, mostly, but the CIA? That would be pretty badass."

"Look—"

"Here." She held out her hand.

Booth blinked at the clump of dust in Buffy's palm. "What?"

"The body. I know where it it, and since I don't want things to 'get ugly,' I thought I'd show you."

"What are you—"

"See the dusty stuff? That's where the body went."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't mean it's not the truth. If I were you, I wouldn't spend my time searching. But of course you're not going to believe me, so you can go do whatever. Me, I'm gonna get some sleep."

Buffy turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

One thing didn't make sense: who the hell had beat her to the vamp?

* * *

Temperance was driving. She was not at all sure where she was driving _to_, but she was driving. There was comfort in the control, in the knowledge that wherever they were going, she was taking them there. She could feel the man beside her relaxing little by little as they sped away from the Jeffersonian and the police.

Why did he wish to avoid the police? It was unlikely to be for a noble reason. She tried not to think that she was probably aiding a criminal. Something inside her, maybe that "gut instinct" that Booth loved so much, was telling her to help him. _But,_ she reasoned with herself, _surely it's just my brain's reaction to his face. _After all, she was accustomed to trusting that face with her life.

Well, no, if she was honest with herself it was curiosity that was driving her actions, and little else. Temperance Brennan had been around the world and back, and yet she had never encountered anything like the man sitting beside her. Every scientific instinct she had was screaming not to let him get away.

She opened her mouth to ask her first question, but Angel beat her to it.

"Who did you think I was?"

"I don't understand."

"Back there, when you first saw me, you thought I was someone else."

"Oh, I—you look like my partner. A great deal like my partner. In fact, your bone structure is—" she took her eyes away from the road for the briefest moment, "it's nearly identical. Impossibly identical actually."

Her eyes returned to the road. Angel said nothing. Her turn.

"So if you're a," she swallowed, "a vampire, then why would you kill your own species?"

She saw Angel stiffen in her peripheral vision.

"It's a long story. "

She waited expectantly.

"Essentially, they're soulless, evil creatures, and I'm..." he stopped.

"There's no such thing as evil."

He laughed, bitterly. "There is. Believe me, there is."

"But what gives you the right to decide what is evil? Morality is entirely relative." This was all very familiar: the car, the argument, the face beside hers. She missed this.

"I don't want to have a philosophical debate with you. They kill people. I stop them."

"But they're predators, are they not? And humans are their prey? Doesn't that mean that vampires are just following their instincts?"

"Vampires are not animals, Dr. Brennan. They're monsters. They enjoy what they do. They take pleasure in people's fear and pain." The disgust in his voice was palpable.

"And you? Why aren't you like the others?"

"I was. For a long time. I did horrible things." The disgust was still there, but now she understood what it meant. He was disgusted with himself.

"...but then, something happened. I got back—was, was cursed with—my soul. My conscience, you'd probably call it. In a way it's what makes you—what makes you human."

For a moment she was silent. Then something he'd said jumped out at her. "Cursed?"

He sighed. It was interesting that he did that, sigh, if he didn't need oxygen.

"It's a curse. The things—the things I've done...and to suddenly care..."

Temperance felt embarrassed, cruel. She needed to change the subject.

"Are the myths correct in claiming that vampires are immortal?"

This seemed to have the desired effect. The tightness in his voice eased somewhat.

"Yes, it's true. That is, we can be killed, obviously, but we don't age at all once we're turned."

Brennan's heart started to race. If she could believe him...so many things that were once unknowable could be knowable. Vampires could speak dead languages, come from ancient cultures. Have met Napoleon or George Washington or Shakespeare or even Julius Caesar. Seen battles and royal courts and extinct tribes. A whole new world was opening up to her, an unparalleled resource for anthropologists and historians and the human race.

She looked over at the man beside her, almost afraid to ask. What had this man seen and experienced? How much could she get him to tell her?

She took a breath, oddly conscious of the air filling her lungs. "How old are you?"

"Look, Dr. Brennan, is there any way you could drop me off? I've explained everything I promised to, and I need to get back to—I need to get back."

Frustration welled inside of her, but then she looked at the steering wheel in her hands. Control.

She smiled sweetly. "Yes, of course. I'll drop you wherever you like. Just as soon as you answer a few more questions."

Temperance chanced a look at Angel's face. Something almost frightening was warring with something else...amusement?

"I'm two-hundred and fifty-seven years old, ma'am." He was mocking her. But she'd won.

"Do you count from your birth or from when you became a vampire?"

* * *

Buffy nearly ran out of the museum. She needed to find the rental car before Agent Booth recovered from the surprise of her exit and came after her. Strange, because all she'd done was talk, but she really was exhausted. Also, she was pretty hungry.

Where was that stupid car? It was some sort of nondescript tan color, hard to pick out in the dark. Belatedly remembering the little button on her keys, she reached into her coat pocket, only to have her slayer sense switch to serious tingle mode.

Buffy's elbow connected with someone's ribs. She whirled around, fists raised.

Booth's (very surprised) eyes stared into hers.

"Oops," Buffy said, "I thought—"

A body slammed into her back, knocking her onto Booth. They fell like dominos, Buffy landing sideways across his legs. The body on top of hers was grabbing for her neck. She threw her head backward, colliding with a nose and provoking a grunt of pain. She twisted around and punched wildly, Booth's legs moving inconveniently beneath her. A shove and a well-placed kick, and the vamp was off her, rolling away. On her feet in an instant, she glanced at Booth. He looked startled and more than a little baffled, but he didn't seem to be hurt. Okay. Time to go to work.

She turned. "See, I was _going _to go get some sleep." She dodged a punch. "But no, you just _had _to make my day more interesting." She landed a solid kick in the kneecap, causing the vamp to stumble. "So I thought I'd return the favor," Knee in the groin. "..and make _your_ day more interesting." She reached triumphantly into her pocket...

_Oh God, where was her stake? _He'd never returned it. Shit.

"Booth?" she asked, parrying a punch and landing one to the shoulder. "You don't happen to have that, oomph" the vamp landed a lucky one in her stomach, "little, um," he was giggling, the stupid fledge, "little fence post with you, by any chance?" Buffy drew back and, with all her strength, popped the vampire in the nose.

He went down, and she followed, digging her knee hard into his chest. Buffy hit him a couple more times, mostly as payback, then glanced expectantly at Booth. He immediately tossed her the stake.

_Good aim_, she thought to herself, as the man below her dissolved into ash. She stood up, pocketed her stake, and brushed vamp dust off her new black coat (any other color immediately acquired grass and dirt stains).

Buffy slowly brought her eyes up to Booth's. He seemed shaken, but he wasn't actually shak_ing_, which was of the good. He was also standing, breathing, and not yelling or screaming. All very good things.

She smiled at him. "Yeah, soooo...that was a vampire." Buffy's stomach rumbled. "Know anywhere we can get some pie?"

* * *

"...so you've never been to Africa?"

"Only very briefly. Too much sun and not enough buildings. Dr. Brennan—"

"—and you were in China during the Boxer Rebellion?"

"Yes, that was rough. Dr. Brennan—"

"—you said you were from Ireland, so I presume you had an accent of some kind. What happened—"

"Dr. Brennan!"

The car swayed, nearly crossing into oncoming traffic. Angel grabbed for the wheel, but Brennan swatted his hand away, quickly recovering control of her vehicle.

"You startled me. I must say that your voice just now sounded a great deal like the roar of a lion. You do seem to exhibit some animalistic tenancies—"

"_Dr. Brennan_." Angel's voice was much softer this time, and utterly terrifying.

Temperance stopped talking.

"All right. That's better. Now, it's been lovely talking with you. What did you say? Yes. Right here would be great, thank-you."

Temperance (who had said nothing during this speech) really, really wanted to argue. Except, despite what some people might think, she _did _have an instinct for self-preservation, and he _had_ been remarkably open with her...

She pulled over.

Angel smiled, rather evilly. "Good choice."

He opened the car door and stepped into the street, then paused for a moment, his back to her. "There's—there's something going on. I'm not sure what, exactly, not yet, but..." He turned to face her. "If you ever need my help, call me."

She took the card he was offering her. On it was printed a phone number, and nothing else.

"I—Okay. Thank-you." Brennan slipped the card into her pocket.

He smiled, or, more accurately, half-smiled. Temperance had to admit it was a very attractive expression. "You're quite an...unusual woman, Dr. Brennan." Then the grin was gone, replaced by his habitual serious demeanor. "Be safe."

He gently closed the car door and faded into the night, his coat flapping in the spring breeze.

* * *

Booth was staring at his slice of pie. He couldn't bring himself to eat it. He really wanted to—he couldn't remember ever craving pie more—but for some reason he was afraid. It was as if the normalcy of a slice of pie after work would somehow make this whole experience real. If he didn't eat it, in a moment he'd wake up with a particularly bad hangover, and later he'd tell Bones about his dream, and she'd say that vampires were just a myth, and he'd say I _know_ that Bones, it was just a dream, and...

"You should eat that. Sugar helps with the shock. Or, well, maybe it distracts you? Tastes good, anyways. This is great pie."

Buffy had no qualms about eating her piece; it was, in fact, almost gone.

He wasn't going to wake up. Comfort food seemed like the next best option.

He took a bite. Blueberry. Yup, he was definitely here.

Buffy finished her slice (apple), and waved away a waitress carrying more coffee.

"Caffeine and adrenaline, not so mixey."

Booth nodded. She was right about that.

"So," said Buffy, as if getting down to business. "You gonna be okay?"

He thought about this. "I think so. I just—that was a vampire?"

"Yes."

"And you...killed it?"

"Yes. Sorta my job."

"Your job?"

A smile, and a small, silly bow. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer, at your service."

He laughed. There was really no other way to respond to this.

The laugh seemed to jump start his brain. He could suddenly remember things that happened before the fight.

"So the missing body..."

"Was a vampire, yes. He—she?"

"She."

"She got dusted. Staked. Deader than, you know, she was before."

"Oh. Wait a minute, _who_ dusted her?"

"Oh, how I wish I knew. It'd save me more than a little trouble. As it is I've got yet another mystery on my hands," She started ticking off fingers. "All the extra vampire activity, our mysterious vampire killer, and," looking surreptitiously at him, "other...things."

"Extra vampire activity?"

Buffy nodded. "It's why I'm here. One of my slayers got hurt."

"_Your_ slayers?"

She ignored that. "I suppose you should know about it, since, you know, your town and all. But if you run into anything fang-having, trust me: call the professionals."

His eyebrows went up of their own accord. "Professionals?"

"Don't laugh at me. I can beat you up."

Okay, well, from what he'd seen that was probably true, but she was so very _small_. He decided now was a good time for more pie. If nothing else, it gave him a moment to think. He felt a little bit like he was swimming in mud. So, back to basics. He was an investigator, with a murder to solve. He would solve it, even if the solution was...out there.

"So Buffy," he said, "tell me about the warehouse."

* * *

He let himself into the house.

The rooms, dark and empty, were covered in graffiti and smelled of smoke, alcohol, and urine. Broken glass crunched under his footsteps as he made his way towards the kitchen and the one flickering light. Angel's eyes closed in annoyance as a voice pierced the silence of the abandoned house.

"Where the bloody hell 'ave you been?"


	6. The Silences on the Sofa

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author: **random shoes  
**Disclaimer: **Psst, wanna know a secret? They are someone else's shoes.  
**Spoilers: **Vague references to "The Parts in the Sum of the Whole." That episode is kind of required viewing for this fic, so...maybe go do that now? :P  
**Author's Note:** This is less a full chapter and more of an intermediate scene. It's also written from a POV I'm not planning on using again (I'm trying to stick to the three Bs: Brennan, Booth, and Buffy) but I thought this scene just needed an outside perspective. It's a bit of a break, but it's also an important moment, and it leads into the next chapter (which hopefully will be finished soon...).  
PS Sorry for the wait. It's been an...interesting couple of weeks. And I hope everyone had a good Singles' Awareness Day.

* * *

_The Silences on the Sofa_

8:19. They were late. Twenty minutes late. Sweets knew they didn't respect him, or even really his job, but _seriously_. This was just rude. At least they usually had the courtesy to call and blow him off directly. He checked his phone, yet again. Nothing. He'd been working with them for years, _two years_, had helped them find and convict countless murderers, and—he thought—he'd become their friend. Showed what he knew. They were back to square one—maybe square zero, if that was a thing—and he had to admit that it was probably his fault.

Except, he wasn't sure what it was that was his fault, at least not exactly. They'd told him that story, The Story That Killed His Book, and he had finally snapped, and just said it. _"If you're not in love..."_ Pushed Booth to go for it, be the gambler. Sweets was sure he'd seen something in the man's eyes, for an instant, as if for once Agent Booth had really _listened _to him, and then it was gone. They were gone. He didn't know what had or had not happened between the partners since then, but he did know (intelligence from Angela) that Booth had been avoiding Dr. Brennan for almost a month. He had intended to use this session to force whatever it was into the open, but instead he was sitting here alone, nearly halfway through their allotted time.

Had he shaken the bonds that held the pair together? Or just those that held them to him?

"I am very sorry I'm so late."

Sweets' head jerked up. "Dr. Brennan! Yes, that's—that's quite all right."

She glanced around his office. Her hair was damp.

"Booth isn't here?"

"Uh, no. He appears to have forgotten too. Have a seat?"

She sat down. She looked—not composed. That was a big deal for Dr. Brennan.

"Did you oversleep?"

"No. Well, yes, I did wake up later than I intended, however I am late because I went to the Jeffersonian first, at which point Dr. Saroyan reminded me of our appointment, so I came here—"

"—I get it, Dr. Brennan." Angela had said her friend was distracted, but this was different: this was _scattered_.

"I gather that you don't know the whereabouts of Agent Booth either?"

"No."

"Well, in that case, we could use this as a private session, if there's anything you need to talk about?"

She shrugged, and gave him that look, the one that said, _why would I talk to you?_

But he knew how to use his power. He said nothing.

The first practical skill one learned as a psychologist was how to be comfortable with uncomfortable silences. Silence could make even the most hardened criminal sing like a canary; most people were instinctually afraid of the quiet.

Unfortunately, Dr. Brennan wasn't one of those people.

He waited. She waited. She looked out the window. He tapped his foot. She yawned. "Tik Tok" was stuck in his head. He tried valiantly not to hum it. Dr. Brennan fiddled with her hair.

The door skittered open.

"Sorry Sweets, I completely overslept." Booth was breathing hard, and his voice was too loud.

Sweets nodded towards Brennan. "Well, you're in good company."

He looked down at her. "Bones," he said.

"Booth," she said.

This was worse than he'd thought.

"Have a seat," he said to Booth.

Booth sat.

"I've been thinking we should discuss what happened in our last session, if that's all right with you."

He waited. They nodded.

"After considering it, I feel that I pushed you too hard, and said things I shouldn't have. In short, that I overstepped my bounds. I would like to apologize for that."

For the first time in the conversation, Booth made eye contact with Sweets. He opened his mouth...

Brennan spoke. "I accept your apology. I realize you were frustrated by discovering the inaccuracies in your book. At any rate, you did no harm."

"Thank-you, Dr. Brennan." But Sweets wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Booth, who was carefully not looking at his partner.

After a moment, "Agent Booth?"

"Yeah. No harm done."

"So...nothing happened?"

"Nothing happened." This was so patently a lie that Sweets had to fight the urge to throw something at him.

There was another silence, only this time Sweets wasn't comfortable in it.

"I hear you have a case." He'd spoken first, which meant, of course, that he'd lost.

He expected Booth to jump at the change of subject, but if anything he seemed to close off even more. "Yes. Multiple homicide."

Dr. Brennan, on the other hand, immediately perked up. "Dr. Saroyan said one of the bodies went missing."

"Yeah."

"Do you have any leads?" She was intent.

Booth shook his head.

That was odd. "Cam called me this morning and asked if I could do a profile. She said you suspected the killer had some sort of obsession with vampires. Is that not true?"

"Um, something like that." Booth looked extremely, well, scattered.

"Vampires are myths," Brennan blurted.

_That was weird,_ Sweets thought.

"Yeah," Booth said. He didn't seem to notice her bizarre tone.

_What the...?_

He'd ignore it, for now. "I can tell you right away that you're probably looking for a man, maybe in his twenties or thirties. There's actually some fascinating literature on Renfield's Syndrome—oh, um, clinical vampirism. That's people who actually become what you might call addicted to drinking blood. It seems to be based around the excitement—it's a sort of high—of breaking a cultural taboo, and it shares similarities with things like necrophilia and cannibalism, although there's almost always a sexual component. We may be looking for someone very much like Gormogon, actually, certainly isolated from society, maybe with some sort of following. You know, it's possible Bram Stoker took the idea for Dracula out of Psychopathia Sexualis, which would be fascinating in light of the recent explosion in..."

Sweets stopped talking. He had just realized that no one was listening to him. He_ thought _this was reasonably interesting stuff, but apparently not. Booth was staring somewhere above Sweets' left ear, clearly lost in thought. Brennan was studying Booth the way she usually studied bones, as if cataloguing and comparing his features to...something. As if she'd never seen him before. Sweets gave up. He just had no clue what either of them was thinking.

"...so I'd say you are looking for a handsome man with a Transylvania accent and the ability to transform into a bat."

Brennan's head snapped towards him. "What?" Booth didn't seem to have heard.

"Nothing," Sweets sighed.

Booth's phone buzzed, finally startling him out of his trance.

"Booth."

They waited in yet another silence as Booth received the information.

"What?"

Brennan glanced up at Booth's surprised voice.

"Of course, sir. I'll come right away." He flipped his phone closed. "Gotta go."

He stood up.

Sweets and Brennan stood up.

"What happen—"

"Is it a—"

They both stopped. Sweets nodded for her to go first.

"What happened? Do we have a case?"

Booth stared at his phone. "I—a senator's gone missing. They think he's been kidnapped."

Brennan grabbed her coat. "I'm coming with you."

"There's no bones. No body. What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to help you find him."

"But—"

"We'll take your car. I'll call Hodgins and ask him to meet us—where are we going? Where was he last seen?"

Booth yielded to the stronger force. "His office. There're pretty clear signs of a struggle..." And they were gone.

Sweets stood for a moment in his—yet again—silent office. He glanced dispassionately at his watch. 8:42. His next appointment was at 10.

He dropped into his chair, lost. A pause, a decision. He grabbed his phone. He would leave the missing senator in their capable hands. Later they would need his help. In the meantime...

"Hey, Daisy. It's Lancelot. You busy?"


	7. Five Words

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
Disclaimer: **"Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright." - Aaron Sorkin  
"Mediocre writers borrow; great writers steal." - T.S. Eliot  
I no more wish to insult Joss than (I imagine) Aaron wished to insult Mr. Eliot. We do it out of love.  
**Spoilers: **Um...no? If you haven't watched all of Buffy, then I honestly don't know what you're doing reading my writing. GO WATCH IT NOW. As for Bones, vague spoilers for "The Parts in the Sum of the Whole," as usual.**  
****Author's Note: **Finally, _finally_ got this finished and edited. On the bright side, it's a bit longer than usual. To all those who've been reviewing: you are all very sweet, and it gives me a little jolt of smiley every time you write me. To all those who haven't been reviewing: if you have any comments, particularly of the specific, constructive kind, please do take a moment to send them to me. I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing. Also, if anyone has any questions about the story, or just wants to nerd out about Joss or whatever, feel free to PM me. I very much enjoy talking to humans.

* * *

_Five Words_

"Giles?"

"Buffy."

There was an awkward pause while Buffy tried to figure out what to say next. She shifted on the bed, making the springs creak a little. Rona and Vi had the news on too loud in the next room. Finally, Giles spoke.

"It's going well over there?"

"Umm...that's why I called you."

"Is everyone all right?" The worry in Giles' voice was utterly dad-like. _I'll take insta-guilt with a side of warm and fuzzy, thank you._

"Yes! Everything's fine. Well, every_body_, anyway. It's just been...weird here, and I wanted to run some stuff by you."

"Oh. Run away."

Buffy laughed. After a moment, Giles laughed too.

"Okay, so...I've had a few, um, collisions with the FBI."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I sorta got arrested last night."

"For what?"

"Breaking into that FBI building, the one you always see on TV?"

"The Hoover Building?" Giles sounded amused.

"Yeah, that one."

"Why, exactly...?"

"I thought they'd brought these bodies there—turns out I was wrong, they were at the Jeffersonian—but anyways I was worried one of them had been turned."

"So you were arrested?"

"Had to call Riley."

"And how is Mr. Finn these days?"

"Very helpful. You know Sam's pregnant, right?"

"I had heard that."

"It's gonna be a girl. Crazy, huh? Riley being all married-with-kids?"

"I do believe that is the normal state of affairs for someone his age."

"Yes but...never mind. So he did some sort of Riley magic, and then I went to the Jeffersonian—"

"How did you know the bodies were at the museum?"

Buffy tensed. "This agent told me. Whoever Riley called must've told him to help me. So I go there and I was right, the vamps turned one of them, only..."

"What?"

"Someone else got there first."

"Got there first?"

"Dusted her already."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

She could practically hear his mind starting to work. "I'll see if I can find out who else might be in town. I assume you've checked with the other slayers?"

"It's only Vi, Rona and Beth besides me. Beth's partner's still in the hospital. Anyway I told them I would take care of it, and Beth was the one who suggested I to go the Hoover Building. She said she thought there was a morgue in the basement. I'm gonna ask her to check with her contacts, see if there's anyone new in town but...who dusts vampires besides slayers?"

"Well, there are mercenary demon hunters, and I have heard of humans who go on vendettas, although they usually don't last too long."

"If you find anything..."

"I'll call."

"And Giles?"

"Mm-hm?"

"There was something el—"

Vi threw open the door.

"Buffy! You have to see this now!" She grabbed the remote control.

The TV lit up. A woman was mouthing excited, inaudible words to the camera.

"Where's the stupid mute button?" Vi looked like she was about to break the remote in half.

"Uh, can I call you later?"

Buffy hung up, just as Vi found the elusive button.

"...tor's whereabouts. We have just received a video, apparently from the kidnappers..."

* * *

The ride to Senator Morgan's office was painfully quiet. Brennan had run out of questions by the time they got to the car, which was fine: Booth had run out of answers before they exited the building. Outside of work, they had nothing to say to each other. It wasn't scientific, but the silence between them seemed to give her real physical pain. Her heart was just a muscle, but it felt cramped, exhausted.

It all used to be so easy, so comfortable. Whatever happened in her life, whatever terrible, absurd, chaotic events found her, he had always been solid. They were always solid. Then he'd ruined everything, by saying...by asking...well, what could he expect her to do? He'd asked for something she couldn't give. He should have _known_ that about her. Couldn't he just forget it all? She needed things back to the way they were before. Her world was tilting on its axis and she couldn't find her center of gravity.

Brennan glanced at Booth, and thought again of Angel. She had no idea what to do with her memories of last night, with the things she'd seen, the things she'd heard. What did one _do_ with the knowledge that vampires were real?

Well: she would most likely recognize a vampire victim, but then what? She'd be unable to explain the circumstances to any one else. If what Angel had said about vampire strength was accurate, she certainly couldn't go after one alone. Her only option would be to call Angel. On her own she would be helpless—no. That was unacceptable. She was not helpless. She had the most powerful weapon in the world: knowledge. Dr. Temperance Brennan was a genius; she could handle vampires. First order of business: get a stake.

And then she realized: Booth. His case was going to lead him right into the jaws of some vampire, maybe more than one, and he had no idea. He would get himself killed. Unless...unless she kept his focus firmly on the missing senator. That could work. And in the meantime Temperance would do something about whatever had bitten those six people.

* * *

At first glance, the crime scene didn't tell Booth much. The "signs of a struggle" amounted to a few fallen papers and a tipped chair. The office was what you'd expect: heavy wooden desk, pristine sofa, thick law books and amber lighting. Behind the desk an Arizona flag and the stars and stripes drooped from their stands.

Hodgins' head popped out from behind the desk, causing Booth to jump a bit.

"Oops, sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. Found this next to the chair." He was holding up something small and brown with those tweezer-things he always had.

"And that is...?"

"Piece of a leaf. Probably from the senator's shoe, nothing special, but who knows? We might get lucky." He carefully dropped the leaf into an evidence bag.

"Hey, Dr. Brennan."

"Dr. Hodgins. Discover anything else?"

"Not yet."

"Keep looking. We'll go talk to his staff," Booth decided. They started to leave the room.

"It's nice to see you two working together again."

Neither partner responded.

Outside the office stood several distraught-looking people and an unnecessary number of cops. When they caught sight of Bones and Booth they all started talking at once.

"Did you find any—"

"Was he kidnap—"

"Can you tell me—"

Booth straightened to his full height and bellowed into the din, "Which one of you people were the last to see the senator?"

Everyone continued to talk over each other.

"_Excuse me,"_ said a terrifying voice from beside him.

Silence reigned.

Booth glance at Bones, smiled a little, then turned back and repeated his question.

A young man stepped forward.

"Okay. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

The man led them into a small meeting room. A television chattered softly in the background.

Booth pulled out his notebook. "What's your name?"

"Hale. Evan—Evan Hale. I'm—I'm Senator Morgan's executive assistant." The man couldn't stand still, eyes shifting constantly to the TV set behind them.

Booth snapped his fingers. "Hey! Calm down. Focus."

"It's just if something happens, I want to know..." his eyes back on the newscast.

"We're here to find your boss. If you want to help find him—"

"—then we need you to answer some questions." His partner's voice was unusually gentle. Hale brought his eyes to her face.

"Okay, sorry, sorry. You're right."

"So, last night...?"

"The senator was working late last night, which means I was, too—"

"You left before him?" Booth drew the man's eyes to his.

"Uh-huh."

"What time?"

"Um, ten-thirty?"

"And did you see anyone around on your way out?"

"Just the janitor and a few staffers. Nobody out of place, that I can remember."

"And—"

Bones' phone jingled. "Excuse me," she moved off into a corner of the room, shooting him an apologetic look.

"And did the senator have any particular enemies?"

"Andrew," Bones muttered, into her phone. Booth's blood pressure jumped to dangerous levels.

"Enemies? Don't the kidnappers just want money? I mean, they wouldn't have to be his enemies would they, if they just wanted the money?"

Booth was having a lot of trouble focusing on Hale's words. She was whispering. Whispering was kind of intimate, right?

"Uh, agent?"

"Yeah, sorry. We—uh, we don't know this is a kidnapping. In fact, we have no reason at all to suppose—"

Hale's eyes had wandered again. "Something's happening!"

Booth turned around.

A shaky video filled the screen. A man sat, tied firmly to the chair back, grey hair disheveled and dirty, eyes red.

"It's him!" Hale announced, unnecessarily. He was already turning up the sound.

"Th—they want me to read" an incoherent noise came from somewhere off-camera. "Oh—don't—I'm reading it." The senator began to read something on his lap. "My kidnappers do not want money. I will not be—not be saved by the police. They do not want me. They want," he looked up at the camera, confused. "They say they want the—the slayers? I don't know what that..." his eyes widened in fear "uh—if the slayers do not come they will...kill me." he swallowed. "It says...from—from beneath you it devours."

The video cut to black.

The newscaster came back on, but Booth wasn't listening anymore. _Slayers_. He knew that word.

* * *

The three women stared at the television in horror.

"Did he just say what I think he just said?" Vi's voice was sixteen again.

"Yep," answered Rona, "He said the magic words."

Buffy retrieved the phone, dialed.

"Giles. So, um...things just got much, much worse."

* * *

They were silent, again, on the ride back to the FBI building. She hoped Booth was absorbed in the case, although at the moment there wasn't much to go on. None of the staffers had told them anything useful, and that video had only made things murkier. All that nonsense about "slayers" and "devouring" was a baffling mystery. But Brennan had bigger worries. Booth could deal with a few mentally unbalanced kidnappers; Temperance had some less human fish to fry.

He dropped her off at the FBI parking lot, with a vague comment about an "errand," and drove off, too fast.

She made her way to her car, planning the conversation ahead. She had to be persuasive; Booth's safety depended on it.

Settled in the driver's seat, she dug out her wallet. The white card was tucked in the back, behind her CPR certification.

Breathing. Buttons.

It seemed to ring a long time. So long, she was sure it would go to voicemail. It didn't.

"Yeah?" It was not Angel's voice.

"Oh, uh, I believe I have the wrong number."

"Right."

She hung up, stared at the card for a moment. _Try again._

"Yeah?" a little annoyed this time.

"Oh, I—"

"Don't think y'uv got the wrong number, lady."

"What?"

"Spit it out, love. Who're you callin' for?"

Brennan swallowed. She felt unaccountably nervous, as if she'd been caught in some embarrassing action.

"A—Angel."

"Peaches is in the shower. Can I take a message?"

"I—Peaches?"

"Yeah. He's in the shower. Been a while since we 'ad one a those. Well, likely not _in_ the shower anymore, 'cause I can't hear the water. Probably doin'...whatever it is he does to his hair to make it all stupid and spiky and—"

Brennan felt it was time to interject. "—yes, as a matter of fact I would like to leave a message. Can you tell him Dr. Brennan called, and—who am I speaking to?"

"Spike."

This gave her pause. "Spike?"

"Got a problem with my name? S'better than Angel."

She couldn't help but smile. "I suppose it is. Are you...a friend of his?"

He laughed, hard, like he was really enjoying it. "Well, I wouldn't say that, exactly...more like colleagues. Sorta family. Somethin' that communicates a lack of choice in the matter. So Doc, you need Peaches for something?"

"Yes, I need some help with tracking down some...some people."

"_People_, eh? Right. This the number he can call you back at?"

"What?"

"Number you're calling from. Phone logged it. Might have to write it down, big guy's not great with technology, but—"

Temperance felt suddenly nervous, as if she'd just realized he could see her.

"Yes. This number's fine. But could you—could you see if—"

A familiar voice stopped her. "What are you doing with my phone?"

"It rang." Spike's voice was distant, he was probably holding the phone away from his face.

"And you picked it up because...?"

"Didn't think you knew how to check your messages."

"I'm not an idiot, Spike. Give me the phone."

Brennan relaxed a little.

"Just tryin' to be helpful. Next time I won't bother." There was a slight rustling.

"Hello?"

"Angel?" she felt an absurd amount of relief. "It's Temperance Brennan."

"Dr. Brennan. Everything all right?"

"Yes—that is...I need your help. With some vampires."

In the background came Spike's voice: "Bloody marvelous! We haven't killed anything in ages!"

* * *

Booth pulled up to the hotel, apprehensive.

It wasn't exactly crappy, but it wasn't nice either. It surprised him; from what he'd seen so far of Buffy, she had expensive taste in clothing and a not inconsiderable sense of entitlement.

Room 27 was lit up, but oddly silent. His hand went automatically to his gun. However little he knew about what was happening to his city, he did know this woman was a central part of it, and that he was wading into dangerous, unknown waters. Waters filled with sharks...

He knocked.

The door opened immediately. A red-haired girl stood before him. No, not girl, woman? She looked very young, like she was barely out of high school, but something in her eyes, in the way she held herself...like Buffy, he realized.

"Hello. I'm Special Agent Booth. I'm looking for Buffy Summers...?"

The gap between the door and the frame narrowed by nearly a foot.

"Who?"

He took a stab. "Buffy. Your boss, I'm guessing."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She was a terrible liar.

"Look, I don't mean her any harm. I need her help."

This took her off-guard. "Wha—help?"

"Yes. Is she here?"

"I—I don't..."

Another woman's head came into view behind her. Her eyes held all the weariness of the red-head's, but none of her innocence.

"I'll take this, Vi." To him: "You're from the FBI?"

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

"Your help. I'm investigating the kidnapping of Senator Donald Morgan. Have you heard—"

"We've seen the news."

"Then you know why I need your help."

Her expression was cold. "I do?"

"They said they want the slayers."

Eyebrows up, mouth shut.

_Fine. All the cards on the table._ "So, considering the very likely possibility that a United States Senator has been kidnapped by vampires, I thought maybe the _vampire_ slayers might, between tours of the Lincoln memorial, deign to offer their services. It is your job, isn't it?"

It was possible, just possible, that he'd affected her in some way. Her mouth seemed to move a millimeter or two. He'd never seen someone this young with such a hard face.

"Okay," she said, and shut the door in his face.

_Fuck._ What now?

He stared at the 27 on the door. The paint was chipping off at the bottom of the seven. He raised his hand to pound on it...

...and found himself looking down at Buffy Summers.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said.

He put his arm down. After a moment she let out a tired smile. "Your day going any better than mine?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so." The door swung open. "Come on in."

He ventured into the room. The red-head and the black woman were giving him intense stares. One with fear and the other with hostility. Booth was gaining a healthy appreciation for Buffy's friendly confidence.

"That's Vi and Rona," she gestured at the women. "Fellow slayers."

Her casual tone seemed to relax Vi. Rona's glare was unaffected.

Buffy sat down on one of the beds. Vi eased into the desk chair. Booth settled on the other bed, across from Buffy. Rona stood, unmoving, in the corner. _Comfortable,_ Booth thought.

"Do you know—"

"Nope."

"—why they asked for the slayers?"

"No."

Vi spoke. "They said—"

A look from Rona stopped her. _Huh._

Buffy continued as if Vi hadn't spoken. "At the moment we're about as informed as you. But, obviously, the senator's kidnapping is a supernatural matter. So, I'm gonna ask you to let us take the lead—"

Booth opened his mouth. Buffy stopped him with a look.

"—I don't expect you to like it. I _do_ expect you to protect yourself, your partner, and all the people who work for you. FBI training isn't going to cut it. _Stay away _from the kidnappers. If you get any leads, call me _first. _I don't care what I look like, I'm not new at this. We're in this now, and I need you to trust me."

The absolute authority in her voice astonished him into silence. Vi's face now displayed only confidence and strength. Even Rona appeared impressed.

Booth looked into the face of the small, sturdy woman before him, and thought of all the times Bones had disagreed with him, and been right, all the times she'd saved his life by ignoring his orders. He might be an old-fashioned guy, but he knew truth and power when he saw it.

"Okay. You're in charge. We work together. As long as I'm included in that we."

* * *

Buffy was getting really, really good at the hero speeches. They came naturally to her, like breathing, riding a bike, punning. She could tell it had worked on Vi, which was good; she'd been worried about her, what with the horrible-memory-inducing phrase they'd just heard. She'd also managed to talk her way onto the top of the food chain, so to speak, which meant there was a possibility Agent Not Angel would listen to her. He seemed to accept her as boss, at least for now. It was a heady experience, ordering FBI agents around. She could get used to this.

"My people are doing some research into the senator, his policies, and any connection with the underworld." Her "people" consisted of Giles, Dawn (who was on break from grad school) and Andrew, but Not Angel didn't need to know that. "In the meantime, Vi, Rona, and I, plus Beth, one of the local slayers—"

Booth started at this. "Local slayers?"

"Yep. There's two of them. Never had many problems here, otherwise we'd have more. Anyway, the four of us will be patrolling, checking out the local demon hangouts—"

"Demon hangouts?" His eyes got kinda big.

"Yeah, demon hangouts. I wouldn't worry too much about demons. They tend to have a rough time blending in. Most aren't too bad, really. Petty criminals and general scumbags. Some of them are perfectly friendly and harmless. Vamps are the ones you wanna watch out for. They'll take you by surprise. Anyway, what I need from you is forensics. If you can find these people for me, we can do the rest."

Booth blinked. He looked pretty overwhelmed. Eventually he nodded. "Forensics is taken care of. I've got the best team in the country. But this...patrolling...I want you to take me with you."

So not part of the plan. "What?"

"This is my city. I keep it safe. And now you're telling me there's a whole...underworld I didn't know existed. Well, I need to know. Long after you are gone, I'll still be here. Like you said, I need to protect my partner, my people. I can't do that if I don't know what's out there."

She thought for a moment. He was right, of course. He needed to know what he was up against. It was only that need for secrecy, hammered into her by the old council, that held her back. "All right. We'll start—"

His phone rang.

"Sorry. I have to—I'm AWOL from work, technically." He picked up.

"Booth...okay...can you give it to someone else? I'm kind bu—oh. Which hospital? George Washington? Okay. I'll be right there."

A feeling of dread settled firmly in Buffy's stomach. She recognized that name. "What is it?"

"A girl—a Madeline Fr—"

"We're coming with you."

••••••••••••

Maddy's throat had been slashed. A perfect, clean line. Nothing jagged, no defensive wounds. Only that effortless split in the skin, and blood dripping lazily down to her collar bone, pooling just above her breasts. She must have been asleep. Probably the pain meds did her in. Dulled her heightened senses. Lulled her into death. She never even opened her eyes. They were still closed, almost. Just the slightest break between lashes and cheek, enough for Buffy to glimpse a sliver of dull, shiny white.

Buffy felt very, very tired.

It was all so calm, so neat. The blood was drying in perfect circles and artistic splatters on her pillow, her hospital gown. Below, traced on her still tucked-in blanket in looping red scrawl, were five oh-so-familiar words.

"From beneath you it devours," read Rona.

Vi looked like she was about to cry. Buffy was pretty sure Vi hadn't cried since Sunnydale.

"I have to call Beth," Buffy realized abruptly. Mechanically, she reached for her cell phone.

As it rang, she made eye-contact with Booth. In his eyes she saw perfect understanding, not of those five words, or Vi and Rona's fear, or even the grief of death. What Booth understood was this call, the words she would have to say to Beth, the sickening duty of being, always, the bringer of bad news.

"Beth. It's Buffy. Something's happened."


	8. Companions in the Dark

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters, although I'd very much like to keep Spike as a pet. (Kidding. Mostly)**  
Spoilers: **General BtVS season seven stuff. Don't know how Buffy ends? Major fail, but this will spoil it, in a roundabout sorta way. Nothing for Bones, unless you don't know what a Forensic Anthropologist is.**  
****Author's Note: **SO SO SORRY for the wait. I had to focus on getting through the semester from hell without (a) letting anyone I personally cared about go all evil and try to destroy the world, or (b) failing any of my classes. And then I had to take a few weeks to recover. And okay, yeah, recovering = binge watching the entire third season of True Blood and sleeping 12 hours a day, but that doesn't mean it wasn't necessary. Also, in my defense, this chapter's waaay longer than usual. And yes, I'll get on that next chapter as soon as possible.

* * *

_Companions in the Dark_

"Don't say anything stupid."

Booth thought this was a bit unfair. After all, he was a grown man with nearly two decades of experience in the military _and_ the FBI, and she was a twenty-something wearing extremely impractical shoes.

Of course, as he followed her into the dimly lit bar and saw the assortment of grotesque...things that patronized the establishment, he did in fact have the urge to say quite a few words, several of them stupid.

"Oh," he said instead.

"Mm-hm," said Buffy, offhandedly, as if she wandered into a bar full of...demons every day. Actually, this probably _was_ what she did every day. She'd called it her "job." Oh God, he needed a drink. Although, judging from the little he could see of the bottles lining the bar, he'd be much better off waiting until he was safe in the Founding Fathers before he ordered a beer.

The room had gone slowly silent as they entered. Buffy walked right up to the bartender.

"I'm not in a good mood," she said.

"Uhh..." said the bartender. He, at least, looked human enough.

Booth had stayed near the door, unwilling to turn his back on any of the creatures. He realized, too late, that this decision had backfired. Several of the patrons looked as if they'd very much like to escape, meaning he'd placed himself directly between the forces of hell and freedom. Damn.

"A slayer was killed today. I'm looking to kill the killer back. We find the culprit quick, we just might decide against an itty bitty massacre."

As alien as the setting was, Booth recognized that threat, its tone. Cops were cops, even, apparently, in the underworld. They protected their own.

A skittish-looking thing, all skin and ears, approached Booth and the door. Booth stood his ground for a moment, looking down at it—at him. His eyes were so human...and so full of fear.

Booth stepped aside.

The demon gave him a grateful nod as he slipped out of the bar. Several others followed suit.

Buffy had a good hold on the bartender's shirt-front. "What do you know about all this activity? Who's new in town?" She spoke in the controlled tone of someone suppressing serious violence. He used that one a lot. "Someone with a taste for kicking people when they're down, maybe?"

"I d-don't know anything, I swear. You're, you're B-Buffy Summers?"

"Sounds familiar."

"I really, really don't know anything! I wouldn't lie to you!"

Buffy didn't look particularly convinced, but she let him go. "I'll be in touch." She sidled out, right past Booth, leaving him to back out awkwardly in her wake.

"That was...interesting," he said, catching up to her on the way to his car.

"Sure."

She really wouldn't give him anything to work with.

They climbed into his car in silence.

"On to number two," Buffy announced, as the car rumbled to life.

"How many are there?"

"Six major demon bars, that Beth knows about."

"What in the hell has been going on in my city?" Booth asked. He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one.

* * *

"Home sweet 'ome."

Temperance spun around, startled.

A man stood in the doorway, surveying the warehouse. His hair and face shown bright white in the darkness.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Angel's voice.

"Means we've stumbled upon the shittiest of all lairs," the man said, turning his head.

"Spike?" Temperance asked, as Angel appeared beside him.

He nodded. " 'S'me love. You must be the Doc."

"Yes. I'm Dr. Brennan."

The two men approached her. Spike was shorter and thinner than Angel, but oddly no less imposing. His eyes were a rather absurd blue and his facial structure was...quite impressive. A straight nose and a sharply pointed mandible, not to mention some of the highest zygomatic bones she'd ever seen. She had a sudden compulsion to touch them, which she ignored of course.

He wore all black, as Angel did, excepting that his coat was considerably longer and his clothing appeared dirtier and less expensive.

"You dress very much alike."

Spike bristled. "Yeah, except _I _don' look like a poof."

"I'm not familiar with that word."

Spike opened his mouth.

"Good," Angel said.

Spike continued to speak. "Poofter. Sissy. Nancy boy. Fairy. Bent. G—"

"Homosexual?"

"Yeah, that."

Every muscle in Angel's face was tensed. Despite Spike's implication, she very much doubted Angel was a homosexual. It was much more likely that their animosity stemmed from their respective nationalities; after all, it was common knowledge that a strong historical dislike existed between the British and the Irish. However, she had no evidence to support this theory, so she refrained from bringing it up.

"And you are also a vampire?"

Angel spluttered. Spike smiled. "S'right Doc. Dead as a doornail. You know, Jacob Marley an' all."

She knew that one! "You are referencing A Christmas Carol, correct?"

"Yea, somethin' like that."

Was he mocking her? She couldn't decide. Not sure what to say next, she glanced away, searching for the relative safety of Angel's face, but it wasn't there. Angel had moved off and was by the couch, examining what were clearly blood stains.

Spike, on the other hand, was examining her. Refusing to appear uncomfortable, Temperance examined him right back.

"Your nails are painted."

"What?"

"Your nails are painted. I point it out merely because, although I am not an expert, I believe many would consider that a strong indication of being a—a "poof" as you called it."

Angel made a noise. It was either a laugh, or he'd just choked on something. Considering that he did not breathe, it seemed likely to be the former.

Spike's mouth slowly went from an 'o' to a wide smile, and then he laughed, giggled really. "You remind me a' someone I used t'know. Nice girl. Never would'a thought ta meet someone as direct as her."

"Shhh," hissed Angel, "We don't want to attract any attention." Temperance wasn't at all sure she liked this new, perpetually grumpy Angel.

"Oh get bent! It's been ages since I had a good laugh." Despite this remark, he strolled over to Angel, sniffing the air. "Our friends weren't much for tossing out their trash, were they?"

Angel gave Spike a look Brennan had only ever seen on imminently homicidal people.

"What do you mean?" She asked, perplexed.

Neither man responded. This annoyed her. A lot.

"Um, Peaches? Take a look at this." He was kneeling a few feet away from Angel, rubbing his fingers together.

"What, Spike?"

"Vamp dust. Lot'uv it." He stood up and turned towards Temperance. "Looks like your murderers 've been taken care of, all convenient-like. An' I was really looking forward to a spot of violence."

Angel came over and kicked at the dust with the toe of his (rather nice) shoes. "Seems like it."

"Excuse me, I don't—"

Angel interrupted. "The vampires who lived here have been dusted. Like the vampire in your lab."

"Are you positive?"

Angel seemed vaguely annoyed at her question. "There's no way to be sure every vampire who lived here is gone, but any survivors won't be anxious to come back. I don't think your partner is in any danger."

Brennan nodded. They wouldn't hurt Booth. He was safe. "I suppose...I suppose I do not need your help any longer."

Spike squinted at the floor. "What'd'ya think? Slayers?"

"Slayers?" She remembered the word.

"Vampire slayers," Angel clarified.

"Like you?"

That set Spike off again, nearly snorting. "Not—not exactly, Doc."

Brennan was getting tired of being laughed at. "I merely meant, since you do in fact slay vampires, that vampire slayers would be an accurate description of your activities."

Spike laughed harder. Angel was left to explain.

"Slayers are humans—girls—chosen to fight vampires. They have exceptional strength, accelerated healing, that sort of thing. Back in the day there was only one, but...now there're more. This many vampires dusted, it was probably the work of a slayer."

In the moment it took her to take this in, Brennan remembered just how absurd this conversation was. She wanted to laugh, or leave, or maybe hit someone. Then she remembered why she'd asked, and the feeling of unreality disintegrated.

"What do these...slayers have to do with Senator Morgan?"

"Eh?" said Spike. Angel looked blank.

"Senator Morgan. He was kidnapped last night. It's been all over the media. It's odd that neither of you are aware of it."

"Peaches here won't let me buy a telly."

"Shut up, Spike. Dr. Brennan, what makes you think this kidnapping has anything to do with slayers?"

"There is a video of the senator, and he used the word...here, I can show you." She pulled out her phone.

"What?" Confusion. Yet another expression that reminded her forcibly of his resemblance to Booth.

"I'll show you the video on my phone."

"You can do that?" asked Angel, as if she'd just told him she could fly.

Spike started laughing again.

* * *

The first four demon bars went pretty much the same: threaten bartender/owner/person-who-looked-sorta-powerful with things she had no intention of doing, get a lot of stammering but no information, and waltz out like she owned the galaxy. Rinse, lather, repeat. The only difference was Agent Not Angel got more comfortable every time. Booth. Agent Booth. She seriously needed to stop thinking that name when he was in the room. It was creepy.

Actually, the whole thing was creepy. It was like Angel had just gone out, bought a couple of nice-ish suits, an FBI ID card, and a beating heart. Well that, and a new personality. Still, she couldn't get used to it.

For his part, Agent Booth (see? she _could_ control her own mind!) was adjusting impressively well to the whole demon-bars-in-his-city thing. He even seemed a little bored by the fifth place.

It was a real dump. They were in Southeast DC—the worst neighborhood in the city, according to Booth—and it showed. The walls were splattered with all kinds of substances she really didn't want to see close up, there was broken glass on the floor, and instead of an assortment of demons, vampires, and humans, there was just one demon species drinking in here. And there were a lot of them.

Buffy didn't like this.

Booth didn't seem to either; he'd drawn in close behind her as soon as they got through the doors. She thought she saw, in her peripheral vision, his hand on his gun. _Cute_.

"I need information on a slayer killer. I get it, I'll go." Best to brazen it out. Probably.

One of the bigger demons stepped forward. He had what looked like small elephant tusks coming out of his face, a handlebar mustache of pain. Buffy wouldn't be punching him in the nose anytime soon.

"Information, huh? A slayer killer? I should have some very definite _information_ on that soon."

Another one spoke up, kinda killing the first one's cool, in Buffy's opinion "Slayers don't come in here. Not if they want to live."

Buffy was wishing she'd brought Vi and Rona along on this errand. "Yeah, yeah, heard it before," she managed, as flippantly as possible. "I don't scare easy." _Keep telling yourself that, Buffy._

The demon laughed. It sounded like something off the discovery channel. Definitely related to an elephant. "Over-confidence. The slayer's only real power. Little girls playing superhero. Just for that, we'll have a little..." The demon gave her what Buffy could only assume was the elephant version of a suggestive look. "...a little _fun _before we kill you."

Buffy was in the process of coming up with a witty reply when she suddenly found herself staring at Agent Booth's back. _Stupid...guy._ He was going to get himself killed.

She grabbed for his arm, ready to pull him behind her, when she heard one word that absolutely stopped her brain function.

"Angelus."

The demon had muttered it, possibly in fear. Others were repeating it in hissing whispers, their tusks retreating into the shadows.

_Time to get out._ "Let's go," she said to Booth, tugging on his arm, and they were out of there in seconds.

Safely in his car, her adrenaline still pumping, she tried to sort out her thoughts.

_1. She wasn't insane. Booth apparently looked a lot like Angel. Or, actually, Angelus.  
__2. Everything was okay. There was no Angelus, she wasn't currently being gang raped by demons, and...everything was okay.  
__3. Booth looked like Angelus.  
__4. Booth looked like Angel.  
__5. She didn't actually know where Angel was or even what continent Angel was on or what he __was doing or if he was still alive or still dead or whatever or  
__6. What if Booth really was...no. Stupid. No. Just some weird coincidence or...something.  
__7. What if—_

"What happened back there?" Booth sounded really not okay.

"I—I don't know." Lying. Lying was good. Or was it bad?

Booth took a deep breath. "I need a drink."

"So much yes."

* * *

Spike's expression was grim. Temperance had only known him for forty minutes, but even her feeble instincts for people told her this was not a small thing.

"We need to go to the slayers," he said, eyes fixed on Angel. He seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

"Not an option."

"Thing he said at the end? From beneath you it bloody devours? That's the calling card a' the First."

"And what would be the use of us barging in on the slayers? This thing was on television. I'm sure they know it's happening by now."

"I can help. Right now there's two girls in this town, no idea what they're up against, likely going to get themselves killed. The Council'll send reinforcements sure, but don't you think we could be of use 'til they get here? You know where they are. Woulda run into them by now if you hadn't been playing secret agent. We've maybe got an apocalypse on our hands, or didn' you notice? Your stupid sodding vendetta can wait a bit."

"It's just a few words, Spike."

"A few words? If you'da wound up as a pile of dust in a giant smoking crater you'd be bloody terrified of those _few_ words."

"Yes. And possibly someone is counting on the slayers having a similar reaction."

"Stupid...bloody...pillock!" Spike seemed to have lost all control.

Temperance was confused. She was annoyed.

She was pissed off.

"Excuse me. I don't pretend to know what you two are arguing about, but as an FBI consultant investigating the kidnapping of Senator Morgan, I must ask you to take me to these slayers. Right now."

Spike's eyes met hers with an intensity that frightened her a little. "Done," he said, and walked out of the warehouse.

Angel stared at Spike's retreating back for a minute, then looked at Temperance. "This is a bad idea," he said, and followed Spike out.

••••••••••••

The two vampires in her car were sulking. It was becoming progressively harder for Temperance to believe in her life these days. She needed words to happen.

"So Spike, why are you not evil?"

An odd sound came from the backseat. She glanced into the rearview mirror to see what he was doing and saw...nothing. Before she could stop herself she had spun her head around. There was Spike, sitting upright in the back seat, blinking at her. Then Angel yelped incoherently, and she quickly brought her eyes back to the road, correcting the considerable drift of the car.

Forcing down the rush of adrenaline, she put on her best scientist voice. "I gather vampires in fact do not appear in reflective surfaces."

"Wha?" said Spike's voice.

"She said you can't see us in mirrors," Angel explained.

"I know!"

"Well then why did you—"

"I was bloody startled, is all!"

"Well how was I supposed to—"

"Are all vampires this childish?" Temperance asked, conversationally.

Neither responded.

"At any rate, I still do not feel I understand why you fight your own species."

"I told you why," muttered Angel.

"Yes, but your explanation would seem not to apply to Spike. Or do you possess a "soul" as well?"

"Hell, Captain Forehead really opened up t' ya, didn't he?"

"I don't understand—"

"Yeah, I have a soul."

She remembered how terrible she'd felt when questioning Angel about this, and she could hear something odd in Spike's voice, but still...

"You were also cursed with your soul?" She never could overcome her curiosity.

"No! I bloody well fought for mine!"

"Fought?"

"Yeah. Trials and tribulations an' all. Hurt like hell."

This didn't quite make sense. "Why would an amoral demon—which is what I have to assume you were before this soul—why would an amoral demon wish to _fight _for a conscience?"

Spike chuckled, but Temperance didn't think he felt humorous. "Why does anybody do anything?"

"That is much too general a question for me to—"

Angel interrupted. "So Senator Morgan went missing last night." Something about his tone made her feel she had offended him in some way. She knew there was something going on below the surface, but she wasn't Booth, and she couldn't seem to see it.

"Um, yes, from his office..."

* * *

In spite of everything that had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours—vampires, vampire slayers, Sweets, kidnapped senators, demon bars—in spite of everything, Booth thought that maybe, just maybe, watching Buffy Summers drink whiskey made it all worth it.

It was both great beauty and high comedy. She went for it each time with a look of utter confidence and focus, as if she was about to box with the heavyweight champion of the world. It was always a big gulp—never a small sip—her face scrunching up like a baby about to cry, her blonde waves trembling, and then...

"_Bleach!_"

The first time he nearly fell off the stool. He did manage to keep himself together—if only in the interest of self-preservation—but his face felt like it was going to split in half. She'd actually stuck out her tongue!

"Not a fan of whiskey?" he asked. His voice came out at a much higher pitch than he'd intended.

"Nah. Never really been a drinker. But sometimes..."

"You just need to get drunk," he finished.

Their eyes met. _Camaraderie_, he thought. A good word.

"Mind if I ask you a question?"

She had just taken another drink, only this time she shook her head, so the noise came out more like "_bleach-ulgh!_"

"Sure," she said, once she'd recovered.

"How long have you been—been a slayer?"

"Since I was fifteen."

That sobered him up. He opened his mouth a few times, but he really couldn't come up with a response.

She chuckled. "Yeah, fun, huh? As if high school wasn't crappy enough by itself, I got vampires and demons and apocalypses."

"Is that—apocalyps_es_? More than one?"

"Yup. First one when I was sixteen."

Booth choked on his drink. "Sixteen...is that normal?"

"What? For a slayer to be called that early? Or the apocalypses?"

"Yes. Both. Either."

"Well, some slayers are called at fourteen, so that's about normal. For some reason it's important to the Powers That Be that the "one girl chosen to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness" is actually a _girl._ Don't ask me why."

"One girl? I thought—aren't those girls I met also slayers? Or are they, what, slayers-in-training?"

"_Bleach!_ Mm-hmm, they're slayers. That one girl thing is past tense. Now there's a few thousand of us."

"Oh. What happened?" He hoped he wasn't interrogating her. He was just incredibly curious.

"A friend of mine did a...thing. I wasn't a big fan of the whole "one girl in all the world" part of the job."

Booth was just now starting to get an inkling of the kind of person Buffy Summers really was. He'd been fooled by the veneer of cheerful flippancy into thinking she was really all there, in that comfortably childish surface. But there were things he couldn't hope to understand going on underneath her carefully open appearance. And, apocalypses? If you believed her—and he did—then she'd saved the world an unknown number of times, while he and everybody else went about their daily business. He was in the presence of a hero, in the classic sense of the word. Wonder Woman.

An image of Bones in her Halloween costume popped, unbidden, into his head. He smiled a little, then shook it off.

"Thank-you," he said.

"What?"

"I get the impression that you've done more than dust a few vampires."

"Um..."

"Saved the world?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"So thank you."

"I—you're welcome."

He held up his drink. After a moment, she touched his glass with hers.

"_Bleach!"_

* * *

"So this slayer is a teenaged girl?"

"I don' exactly _know_ how old she is, do I? Never met her."

"But slayers are commonly young girls?"

"Well, yeah, in the normal course a' things—"

"That seems rather impractical—"

"—'cept things in the slayer world haven't been normal for a while now."

"But why would—"

"Could you perhaps put a sock in it, Doc? 'm trying ta think."

Hurt, Temperance did in fact close her mouth. They were nearing the door at any rate.

Angel, who had said nothing for the last twenty minutes (Booth would have said he was sulking), finally spoke up as they stood in front of the door. "This should be good."

Spike gave Angel another of those impressively violent glares, then knocked.

It took so long for the door to open that Temperance began to think no one was home. Spike fidgeted: shifting his weight from foot to foot, shoving his hands into his pockets and pulling them out again. Angel stood behind them and a little to the side, unnaturally still, his arms crossed.

When the door finally did swing open, it did so slowly.

The girl—she looked perhaps eighteen—did not appear pleased to see them. Temperance met her eyes and tried on a reassuring smile, but the girl's gaze had already moved to Spike, and then to Angel. Temperance gave Spike an expectant look. He seemed to be blinking a great deal.

"Right, then. Name's Spike. This here's Angel, and, uh, Dr. Brennan, but we just 'ave her...she was...bloody 'ell."

Temperance jumped in. "You are a slayer, correct?"

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Spike had recovered, somewhat. "This senator kidnapping business. You hear what he said on TV?"

"Yes."

"You know what it means?"

"Know what what means?"

Spike's eyes darted around for a moment before he answered. "From beneath you it devours. It's something the First Evil says. You know about the First?"

"Who are you?"

"Uh...we're...we want to help."

The girl snorted. "Really." She stepped back, holding open the door. Temperance waited for Spike to cross the threshold, but he didn't move. Instead, the frustration in his face increased.

The girl stepped back into the space between door and frame. "I thought so."

"We're bloody white hats, okay? Just ask someone who knows about the First Evil. I was in Sunnyhell when the shit hit the sodding fan. First sign a' trouble was everybody kept saying those words. From beneath you it devours. Thought it was dumb at the time. Don' think so now. You shouldn't get into this mess on your own. Call in the cavalry, many slayers as you can get. That's all, I s'pose. We'd help out but...clearly can't expect you to trust me as far as you could throw me, or, well, you _could _throw me pretty bloody far—"

"So vampires really do require an invitation to enter a home?" _Interesting._

"Yes," Angel said, startling Temperance. She'd actually forgotten his presence.

The slayer looked confused, but she brushed it off. "How stupid do you vamps think I am? Look, I've had a terrible day, so here's what's going to happen. I'm going to close this door, go into my bedroom, and get my crossbow. Then I'm going to come back and open this door. If, when I do, this hallway is empty, I'll head to bed. Otherwise, I'm likely to take out my bad day on you, got it?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Right. Got it. Bugger off."

The door slammed shut, a few inches from Temperance's nose.

Spike turned, his coat flapping, and led them toward the stairs, setting an ostentatiously casual pace. "Sodding slayers. All the same."

Beside her, so quietly she wasn't sure she's heard him right, Angel muttered, "Told you so."

* * *

Buffy felt all warm and fuzzy. Most of the warm was in her stomach. The fuzzy was hanging out in her head. Lots of fuzzy.

She was walking with Agent Not Angel, in a mostly straight line.

"You're not so bad, for a government type-person."

"You're not so bad for a...whatever you are. Slayer." He shook his head, disowning the sentence.

Buffy laughed, slipping her arm into his. She was surprised at the urge, but she didn't fight it. He really was a nice guy. Reminded her of Riley, but only in the good ways. She so needed to stop thinking of him as Not Angel.

"What's your first name?"

He grimaced. "Call me Booth."

"C'mon. Give it up."

"Seeley."

She hit him lightly on the arm. "And you made fun of my name!"

"It's a silly name."

"That's the pot calling the...something-or-other black."

A smile. "My partner does that."

"Mmm?"

"Gets expressions wrong."

"Yeah, I've never been real good with words." She leaned into him a little. "What's your partner like?"

"She's a squint." In response to her lost expression, he explained. "A scientist. At crime scenes they squint at things and go _hmmm._"

That made her laugh. "Squints. I like it. So your partner's not a FBI agent?"

"Forensic Anthropologist."

"Foren-whatsy?"

"She studies old bones."

"H'okay."

"Honestly she's better with dead people than she is with the living. She's a genius, though. Sees things no one else can. And a bestselling author."

The pride in his voice was so sweet it made Buffy's throat close up. It was amazing that he had someone to share it all with. She would have given a lot for a partner, once upon a time. It had always been impossible, living as the only chosen one, so much stronger than everyone around her. She could never have an equal, never have a balanced relationship. In that way, nothing had really changed.

"She sounds amazing."

"She is."

They were approaching their destination; Buffy tugged Booth to the right. "This way. Beth's place is a block down."

They walked for a minute in comfortable silence, Buffy swaying ever so slightly.

"This is it." They stopped in front of the building and she dropped his arm. "Thanks for walking me."

He picked up her hand and squeezed it. "My pleasure. And I'm sorry about your friend. You can take care of her?"

Before Buffy could respond, the door to Beth's building opened, and out walked the two people who, out of everyone in the world, she least expected to see at that moment.

"Buffy?" breathed an oh-so-familiar voice.

"Bloody hell," barked another voice, just as familiar.

Mr. Warm and Ms. Fuzzy died a violent, painful death.


	9. Familiar Faces in the Shadows

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author: **random shoes  
**Rating: **T, as before, but be warned: actual swear words have reared their ugly heads! *gasp*  
**Disclaimer: **Yeah...I'm a thief. Sorry about that.  
**Spoilers: **All of AtS (or really, "Not Fade Away"). Also makes reference to "Damage." If you haven't seen or don't remember this episode, a few things may go over your head, but don't worry about it. It's not integral to the story.  
**Author's Note:** I present part one of the colossal collision of a couple of courageous crime-solving...uh, companies? Please avoid acknowledging the awful alliteration as I have clearly contracted a contagious and dangerous disease of death. Oh my...someone seriously should shoot me.  
By the way, I have recently signed up as a beta reader, so if anyone is looking for some help (particularly with BtVS fics) and doesn't mind breaking a newbie beta in, shoot me a PM.  
Oh, and for the record I have no intention of revealing pairings until the story does. I think the world (and the internet) could use a bit of mystery. It's not a vote, and it's not whoever shouts the loudest. I love hearing from you, and please do keep telling me how you think it should go (particularly if you have an argument for _why_ it should go that way) but in the end I'm going to do whatever feels right for the story (believe me, I'm not at all sure what this will be). I hope that, whatever direction it should take us, everyone enjoys the ride. And also that no one comes after me with anything sharp.  
PS I'm working on the bones of the next chapter, and I actually had to _make a list _of all the misunderstandings, just to avoid confusing myself.  
PPS Sorry for the indecently long ramble here. I do that sometimes.

* * *

_Familiar Faces in the Shadows_

Booth wasn't _really_ drunk. Just pleasantly warm. And, yeah, a little buzzed. He had a strong head, and, bizarrely, hadn't felt the need to drink himself into oblivion. He should have—God, he should have wanted to chug a bottle of whiskey. Vampires, for Christ's sake. Vampires and demons and slayers, in _his_ town, all just hanging out, _we've always been here, nothing to see. _Jesus.

But he'd been in a war. And the first thing a soldier learns—if he wants to survive—is how to adapt. Don't ask questions, don't step back and look at the big picture. Focus on what's in front of you, and react. He'd been able to tap into that because of Buffy. Her matter-of-fact control, her playful manner, everything she'd done since that first vampire fell to dust before his eyes, everything had made it easier. She was the seasoned warrior showing the clueless kid the works. And while he was long used to being on the other side of that exchange, it was still a language he spoke. Booth tapped the stake in his pocket, a small smile on his face. She'd even shown him a few moves. It had been like training to be Van Helsing: pretty freakin' cool.

Which was all a way of saying that he felt less like someone whose world had been tipped upside down and more like a soldier fresh off his first battle. High as a damn kite.

"You're not so bad, for a government type-person." And there she went, reminding him how young she was.

"You're not so bad for a...whatever the hell you are." Possibly he was a _little_ drunk.

She slipped her arm in his and he smiled down at her, enjoying the feeling of having someone close. It occurred to him that she was female. Also damn pretty. Why hadn't he noticed this before?

"What's your first name?"

_Uh-oh._ "Call me Booth."

"C'mon. Give it up."

He did. "Seeley."

She whacked his arm, surprisingly hard. It kinda hurt, actually. "And you made fun of _my_ name!"

Had he? He couldn't remember. He needed to revise his mental blood alcohol estimate. "It's a silly name."

"That's the pot calling the...something-or-other black."

He felt something shift in his gut. "My partner does that."

"Mmm?"

"Gets expressions wrong." He couldn't help thinking about walking this way with Bones, about that comfortable ease that they'd so recently lost.

Buffy was talking. "What's your partner like?"

"She's a squint." Her blank look reminded him that this was not a term in general circulation. "A scientist. At crime scenes they squint at things and go _hmmm._"

His impression got him a laugh. These days, everyone watched CSI. "Squints. I like it. So your partner's not an FBI agent?"

"Forensic Anthropologist."

"Foren-whatsy?" Buffy with scrunched-up brows was more than a little adorable.

"She studies old bones."

"H'okay." It was a dismissal, but he couldn't help himself.

"Honestly she's better with dead people than she is with the living. She's a genius, though. Sees things no one else can. And a bestselling author."

"She sounds amazing." There was sincerity in Buffy's voice.

_You don't know the half of it. _"She is."

Buffy pulled on his arm and he turned obligingly. "This way. Beth's place is a block down." The mention of her friend reminded him of the dead girl. Madeline. It seemed like she and Beth had been close.

"This is it. Thanks for walking me."

He reached for her hand in a sudden rush of tenderness. "My pleasure. And I'm sorry about your friend. You can take care of her?" Booth heard the building door open behind him, but he kept his eyes on Buffy, expecting an answer.

None came. Instead her face clouded over with such a torrent of expressions that even Booth's emotional radar couldn't sort them out. Her hand was squeezing his so tightly that he was afraid his bones would actually break. From behind him somebody muttered her name and he turned, unable to pull his hand from hers, just in time to meet the eyes of his partner as she exited the building.

Somebody swore.

"Temperance...?"

"Booth? What are you doing here?"

"I—" His hand hurt. A lot. Sheer physical necessity forced him to turn back to Buffy, who was frozen in place, eyes directed at the two figures that, he was dimly aware, had walked out in front of Bones.

"Ow! Buffy! My hand!" That brought her out of it (whatever it was) and she immediately released him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. I didn't...what...I—" And then she was gone, through the door and up the stairs, faster than (he'd thought) was humanly possible...

...leaving him to stare, dumbfounded, at the three people remaining on the sidewalk.

There was a momentary silence.

"Well, that went swimingly." The speaker was a man, shorter than Booth, and dressed—_what the fuck was going on?_—like Billy Idol.

Booth stared at him, opening and closing his mouth experimentally, but quickly gave up the effort as hopeless and turned back to Bones.

She wasn't looking at him. "Is everything all right? Who was that woman?" Her voice was full of worry and confusion. Following her gaze he finally focused on the other man, who looked like he had just had a heart attack. Or been turned to stone. He didn't seem to be breathing.

Rolling his eyes, Billy Idol grabbed the man's arm and shook, proving once and for all that the man was not, in fact, a statue.

"I—yes. Fine. I'm fine."

Billy Idol snorted. "Bollocks."

"Spike? What's wrong with him?" Bones asked.

Booth's eyes were still on the statue. Something was bothering him. "Have we met?"

The statue looked up. "What?"

"Have we met? You look familiar." Booth could feel Billy Idol's eyes land on him.

"I don't—" said the statue, and then the laughter started.

"Oooh, that is...that is bloody brilliant, that is. What in the... 's the craziest thing! Angel, she's replaced you. Found herself Angel Lite. Fucking 'ell, it's a bit creepy though, in'n it?" Billy Idol was bouncing around like Parker with a chocolate bar, whipping his head from Booth to the statue and back to Booth again, laughing uproariously. The statue had returned to stone.

Booth felt like he'd been shoved onto some carnival ride and was spinning in three directions at once. He really wished he hadn't had so much to drink; he was getting physically dizzy. Where in the hell had Buffy gone? And, more importantly, why?

"Bones?" he pleaded, searching for her eyes, for an anchor in the madness.

He found it. "Spike," she said, in her best Queen-of-the-Lab voice, "it would be altogether more productive if you would _calm down_."

"Spike" did as he was told. The other man was staring at the door Buffy had run through. He was starting to look less like a statue and more like a lost puppy. He also looked really, _really_ familiar.

"Now," continued Bones, "could someone please tell me who that woman was?"

_A question he could answer!_ "Buffy. Buffy Summers."

Her attention was on him now. "Were you on a date?"

He opened his mouth to deny this, but then his head caught up with him. What then? She'd ask what they'd been doing, and he didn't have an answer. Not one that didn't involve vampires, anyway.

"Yes." Oh Jesus, had he really just said that? He looked for an emotion, any emotion on her face, but it was hard. Closed for business. _Shit._

Something (his gut?) told him to turn. Two pairs of eyes, one brown and one blue, had settled on him with such hostility that he took a step back.

Nobody said anything for a good thirty seconds.

"Got any Mickey ancestors, mate?"

It took Booth a moment to realize this was directed at him. "What?"

"Irish. 'ave any Irish blood bopping around in there?" Billy Idol was intent. The statue gave him a sharp look.

"I—" _Wait. Someone else had asked him that. Buffy. Okay, what the hell?_ "Why is everyone suddenly so damn fascinated with my family history?" He turned away from the men and back to her. "What are you doing here, Bones? Who are these guys?"

Parted mouth. Darting eyes. Shifting facial muscles. Booth might have been drunk, but he could still spot someone who was about to lie to him from a mile away. Hurt swept through his body.

"We—"

The statue saved her. "I am a private investigator. Dr. Brennan has hired me on a personal matter."

Personal matter? One she clearly didn't want to share with him. He tried not to feel betrayed. At any rate, if this man was a P.I., that might explain why Booth recognized him. They could easily have met on a case. It was possible. Maybe if he got the statue's name that would jog his memory.

"Well, um, I'm Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan's partner." Booth awkwardly offered his hand. He got a strange look, one he frankly couldn't fathom, and then the statue moved towards him.

"I'm Angel." Who _were _these people, and what was with the bizarre nicknames? They sounded like gangbangers.

He realized he'd been holding Angel's hand for an unnaturally long time. He let it go, but something was tickling at the back of his mind.

"Just Angel?" he heard himself ask, "No last name?"

"Uhh," said Angel.

"Not recently," said Billy Idol.

And then Booth got it. Angel's hand had been cold. Unnaturally cold. Corpse cold.

This man was dead, his body possessed by a demon, and he had been wandering around with Bones. Fear bubbled up, but he pushed it back down. He could take care of this.

Angel was watching Booth suspiciously, his back to the door. "Buffy?" Booth said, in his best surprised voice.

It worked. Angel immediately turned to the door, giving Booth the opening he needed to go for the stake. His hand closed around the smooth, solid wood, and he raised it, brought it down...

"Booth!" Brennan yelled, causing Angel to spin around, reach up, and parry his strike, quite literally in the blink of an eye.

Booth just barely managed to retain his balance. He steadied, and quickly assumed the defensive stance Buffy had taught him: body sideways, stake out in front, ready to stab downwards at the heart.

"Bones," he said, eyes still on Angel, "these men are da—"

And then he was staring up at the starless sky, his jaw burning in pain.

Bleached hair and icy blue eyes slid into his line of vision.

"You didn't need to hit him," said Angel's voice.

"Well, yeah," said a grinning Billy Idol, "but I _really_ wanted to."

* * *

"_You've made a ton of progress since you got here." Willow's voice was full of pride._

_Incredibly, so was Faith's."Yeah girl, un-fuckin-believable. Psycho to white hat in three months." _

_Dana was smiling at the two of them with such utter worship that Buffy was almost jealous. But the desk she was sitting behind gave her a welcome feeling of power, and she cut in. "That's what we wanted to talk about. Will thinks we've done all we can for you, healing-wise." At Dana's stricken face, she hastily continued. "You always have a place here, Dana. Never doubt that. But it's time for you to make a choice. You can stay here with us and train to be a full-fledged slayer or...or you can choose to leave, to try to lead a normal life. We can set you up with an apartment and a little bit to live on until you get a job." Buffy held up her hand to stop the girl from responding. "I don't want you to decide right now. Take at least a day, longer if you need it. Being a slayer is a violent, crazy-making existence. And with everything you've been through...well, you need to think very hard about whether or not you want that violence in your life." Buffy took off her serious face. "'course, you can always change your mind. Being a slayer isn't a calling anymore; it's a job. Don't worry about us: we've got it covered."_

_Dana nodded. "O-okay. But I—"_

_The door flew open, slammed against the wall, bounced back, and hit Andrew in the face. Dana laughed._

"_Ow! Gees, that door is totally harder than it looks—for something that cheap you wouldn't think it would hurt that much—can you get a splinter in your nose?"_

_Buffy was thinking seriously about shoving a splinter in his nose herself, a huge, stake-shaped splinter..._

"_What if it, like, traveled up to your brain and caused some kind of wood-related infection and—"_

"_Andrew," Buffy said, over the babble, "What do you want?"_

"_Oh! Of course, madam general." His voice went into that corny narrator tone, the one that always made her want to hit things. "There has been a disturbance in the city of the angels."_

"_Speak human, please."_

"_Los Angeles. Home of the champion Angel and his band of merry men—or, more accurately, men and women, for one must not forget—"_

"_Spill it, pipsqueak," Faith had interrupted this time. Buffy was distracted by the stomach crawlies that somehow always popped into existence at the word 'Angel.'_

"_He has provoked the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart into a great battle, a battle between good and evil, one small band of scrappy heroes taking on the very forces of hell..."_

_Faith was out of her chair and throwing open Buffy's weapons chest before Buffy could blink._

"_...nothing but two humans..."_

"_He always was a dumbass," Faith muttered, into the pile of crossbows._

"_...two soul-having vampyres..."_

_Faith locked eyes with Buffy. "Get the scythe and we'll go." Buffy would have taken offense at Faith's giving her an order, except, did Andrew just say...?_

"_...and one former hell god—"_

"_What?" There was no longer anything crawling in her stomach. In fact, she wasn't sure anymore that she _had_ a stomach._

"_Oh yes, you do not know. I speak of the god Illyria, an old one, currently inhabiting the body of—"_

"_Not that. Did you just say two—two vampires? Two vampires with souls?"_

"_Oh. Oops?" _

"_Andrew," said Buffy, in her slow, dangerous voice, "please explain. Now."_

"_I—I—I promised I wouldn't..."_

"_Should I leave?" asked Dana. All eyes went to her. Buffy was willing to bet she wasn't the only one who'd forgotten Dana's presence._

"_Um, yes, I think it's probably best, hon," answered Willow. "Sorry about, about all this."_

_The scrape of Dana's chair seemed unnaturally loud to Buffy's ears. Faith made to give her a pat on the back on her way out, but, as she was holding a crossbow in one hand and a large sword in the other, was forced to settle for a reassuring smile._

_The click of the door was Buffy's cue to turn her glare back on Andrew._

"_Tell me."_

"_Spike—"_

_How did you breath, again?_

"_Spike is—is alive. Or, actually, dead, 'cause he's a demon and everything, but...you know what I mean."_

_But she saw...? "How? Why? How?"_

"_Well, those are three very complicated—"_

"—_we have to go," cut in Faith. "We've got to get to L.A., keep those idiots from getting themselves dead. Save twenty questions for later."_

_Buffy stood up, all of a sudden feeling Faith's urgency. A quick, focused thought of her scythe, and it was in her hand (one of Willow's innovations). Willow stood too, her form already sparkling with magic. "I'll get a small group together here. I think I can transport a couple more besides you and Faith. Just let me call our L.A. branch—"_

"_Oh, Miss Rosenberg! No, I must abuse you of the incorrect notion you are operating—"_

"_ENGLISH!" roared Buffy._

_Andrew's voice got very small. "It's all over. The battle." _

_Buffy sat down. Her scythe clattered on the desk. "Are...are..."_

_Willow asked what Buffy couldn't. "Are they alive?"_

"_Oh yes! Angel and Spike are still very much undead." His face grew terrifyingly serious. "However it appears that Mr. Wyndam-Pryce did not make it."_

_Buffy felt a pang of sadness, for the watcher she'd never really liked, and, more, for the man that had been there for Angel when she couldn't be. _

_There was a small crash as Faith dropped her weapons back into the chest. "Shit," she said, to no one in particular._

_Buffy was trying very hard to sort out the emotional roller coaster she'd just been taken on. Angel had gotten himself into some kind of battle-to-the-death and hadn't bothered to pick up the phone. Spike was alive...and hadn't bothered to pick up the phone. Did anyone care about her at all anymore?_

"_Okay," she said finally, "guess we have time for twenty questions then, huh?"_

* * *

Buffy was shaking. Not a lot, but...still. Shaking. She was leaning against the outer wall of Beth's apartment, using it, if truth be told, for support. God, had she just run away? She had. She'd run away. She didn't _do_ that. A slayer didn't just run away.

Between the alcohol in her system, the sight of Angel and Spike, and that moment with Booth, she'd simply hit emotional overload. And it didn't help that in the instant before she saw them she'd been thinking—not seriously, but still—she'd been thinking about what it would be like to kiss Booth. Which was totally wrong. On many, many wrongness levels. First, he looked like Angel. Second, he was way old, like maybe forty (and yeah, Angel was two hundred and forty, but still). Third...well, she couldn't think of a third, but it was still wrong.

She hit the wall with the back of her head, hoping the pain would clear it. Mostly, it just hurt. It was only that he was so nice, and she didn't have to lie to him, and...she was lonely. Okay, she could admit it. But it was, well, sleazy to want him only because of how he looked and...she needed to distract herself right now. Which, actually, wasn't going to be hard, because Angel and Spike were_ (oh, God) _right out—

"Booth!"

Uh-Oh. That was not a good sound. Time to face the music.

Buffy sprinted down the stairs.


	10. Old Friends in New Places

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author:** random shoes  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these people. But some of them own me.**  
Spoilers: **"Damage" again. Also, I guess, "Once More With Feeling," but if you haven't seen that I just might have to shoot you.**  
Author's Note: **First order of business, I want to thank all of you who've left me so many sweet reviews (some of them of quite a lovely length). You make it so much easier to keep my nose to the grindstone on this story. It's well on its way to becoming to the longest thing I've ever finished (fingers crossed), and that's largely your doing.  
Second: SHAMELESS BETA PLUG: message me if you need a beta! I have too much time this summer.  
Third: So, I used Dana in the last chapter, even though I knew some people wouldn't know who she was. I said then that it wasn't too important, and it isn't, but in case anyone is curious, doesn't want to go looking for that episode, and doesn't mind SPOILERS, (just in case you're slow, SPOILER ALERT) here's the thirty-second Dana explanation: Dana was a potential who was kidnapped and brutally tortured, turning her basically psychotic. When Buffy called all the potentials Dana suddenly become a psychotic _slayer_ (in other words, a lot stronger). She escaped from a mental institution and had a run-in with Angel & co. during which she mistook Spike for the man who kidnapped her and ended up cutting off his hands (they were reattached, don't worry). Then Andrew and a bunch of slayers took her away, on "Buffy's orders." Also, Spike and Angel had an awesome conversation, which you should watch. END SPOILERS.

Business complete. Enjoy the show!

* * *

_Old Friends in New Places  
__OR  
__The Death of Fred the Lobster_

The first thing Buffy saw was Spike's hair, dull yellow in the glow of a nearby streetlight. And then the dark bulk of Angel's back. Booth was nowhere in sight.

"You didn't need to hit him," Angel said.

Buffy knew exactly the expression on Spike's face; she might as well have been looking directly at him. "Well, yeah," he said, "but I _really_ wanted to."

That spurred her forward, past the vampires, right to Booth's side.

There was someone there already.

"They're dangerous," Booth was telling the woman, "I can't explain but—mmm." He'd tried to sit up in the middle of this sentence and it hadn't gone well.

"It's all right, Booth," the woman ordered. That's what it sounded like: an order.

"No it's really n—Buffy. Where did you—watch out!"

Buffy spun around, expecting to see a seven foot tall bug demon or something, and found herself facing Spike, his hands in his duster pockets and a satisfied grin on his face.

She made a complete survey of the area. No bug demons. "What? Where?"

"Me, love. He means watch out for me."

"Oh." She turned back to Booth—who was holding his head and trying frantically to stand up—opened her mouth, changed her mind, and turned again, tracing a complete 360 degrees.

"You," she pointed at Spike, "You hit him, didn't you?"

"He tried to stake Angel."

"But you shouldn't have—" _Wait, did he just say..._ "You were _defending_ Angel? You were defending _Angel_?"

"Didn't need defending," muttered Angel.

"And you," pointing at Angel, "what did you do?"

He shrugged. He didn't _look_ guilty but...this whole situation felt extremely familiar.

"He's a vampire," supplied Booth. He was standing now, trying to look tough, but leaning heavily on the woman.

"I think you hit your head," mystery woman said, off-hand.

"No! I mean, yes I did, but that's not why...damn! I know you'll never believe me and I should just shut up but...oh screw it. Buffy?"

"I—" said Buffy.

"Booth—" said the woman.

"Oh for Christ's sake Bones, for once in your life can you just _trust me? _I can't prove it, and I _know_ it's completely ridiculous, but that man," he was glaring at Angel, "is a vampire."

"I know," said the woman.

Buffy was pretty sure her face looked exactly like Booth's: mouth hanging open, eyebrows up around the hairline. Well, _she_ didn't have a nasty bruise forming on her jaw, but...

Mystery woman used the silence to introduce herself. "Dr. Temperance Brennan. I'm Booth's partner."

"Um, hi," said Buffy. _Where had this woman come from?_

"You are Buffy Summers?"

"...yes." _And why did she know Buffy's name?_

"And I gather you are somehow acquainted with Angel?"

"Uhhh..." said Buffy.

Spike snorted.

"Yes," she said, as firmly as possible.

"You—you know?" said Booth.

The woman ignored him. "You were here with my partner?"

"Uh-huh."

"And you saw us come out and you...ran away."

Buffy did not like this woman.

"Are you...afraid of Angel?"

"No!" Buffy had been forming the word, but it was Angel who said it. It startled her into finally making eye contact with him. He looked...unsure.

"That is, you aren't. Are you?"

"Of course not!" His eyes closed, in relief? _How could he think..._

"I'm not," Spike said. "Afraid of Peaches, I mean."

"Excuse me," said Booth's partner, "but if you were not afraid of anyone, why did you run away?"

"Ah..." Actually, Buffy was done answering questions. She turned on the woman. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I came with Angel and Spike."

Booth was standing on his own now, staring at his partner. "Wait, but...how can you be okay with this?" He turned a lost look on Buffy. "And why aren't you, you know, slaying?"

Buffy took pity on him. "They're...well, they're good guys. It's a long story, but..."

"I thought you said vampires were evil. All of them."

"They are, usually, it's just that—"

"—we're special snowflakes," finished Spike.

"Um, yeah. They're different." _Wow, was that lame._

"They have souls," said the doctor woman, as if she was saying they had umbrellas. "Miss Summers? Are you by any chance a vampire slayer?"

"Iwhahuh?"

"A vampire slayer."

"How do you—never mind. I don't want to know. Yep, that's me. Vampire slayer. _The_ vampire slayer, actually. And I'm_ really_ confused, but I'm also way stronger than all of you, so this is what we're going to do: first, everyone's gonna take a deep breath, whether or not they, personally, require oxygen. Then we're all going to file calmly up the stairs to my friend's apartment, where Doctor...I forget your name, but you, you're gonna clean up Booth, 'cause I think his head is bleeding. You should check him for a concussion. You can do that, right?"

"Well, yes, but I am not a medical doc—"

"Whatever. Just make sure he doesn't wake up in a coma."

"It is not possible to 'wake up' in a—"

"Really don't care. While she's doing that, we," she shot Spike and Angel a look, "are going to have a talk, which will finish when I am no longer in any way confused. And then you're all going to go away and I'm gonna sleep for a decade or two." Buffy paused for a calculated moment. "Everyone calmed down? Good. Let's go." She turned towards the stairs, knowing the others would follow.

"Bravo," said Spike.

Buffy felt the corner of her mouth fighting upwards. She'd missed that. She'd missed him.

* * *

Temperance held Booth's arm on the way up the stairs. He seemed to be supporting himself all right, but she didn't want to take any chances. He was moderately inebriated in addition to his bruised jaw and the cut on his temple, and was overall a bit disoriented, although that was understandable. The entire situation was quite perplexing. Possibly she would find it amusing if she understood more of it, but right now it was merely perplexing.

She was in possession of two—somewhat questionable—pieces of information. First, they appeared to have interrupted Booth on a date with a vampire slayer. Second, that slayer was in some way connected with Angel and Spike. Temperance couldn't decide if this second surmise was odd or not. It would seem strange for a vampire slayer to be on familiar terms with vampires, yet these vampires were slaying vampires themselves, so perhaps it made sense. Or as much as anything concerned with vampires could be said to "make sense."

Also, this Buffy Summers was quite a bit younger than Booth. Not that Brennan subscribed to societal age rules, but Booth claimed he did, and she found it a little hypocritical of him to be seeing someone who must be at least ten years younger than himself. And...and she was surprised how quickly he'd moved on. It was a good thing. He'd said he needed to move on, and now he had. But she was surprised.

Ms. Summers knocked for several minutes before she received any response. Slow footsteps came towards the door, stopped, and then nothing happened. Presumably the girl was making use of the small lens built into the door.

"You're late," she said, opening the door, "...and, other...people..."

"Yeah," said Ms. Summers. "About that—"

"I told you to get lost," said the girl, in the general direction of Spike and Angel.

"What?" said Ms. Summers.

"Not you. Them."

"Oh. Look, I know they're...annoying, but they're, um, mostly harmless."

"Been spendin' time with Andrew, pet?" asked Spike. Brennan did not understand this comment. Neither did Ms. Summers, as far as she could tell.

"They're vamps," said the girl.

"I keep saying that," muttered Booth, "but no one listens."

The girl glanced at Booth. "Is he hur—are there two of them?" She was looking at Angel, at Booth, at Angel.

"Two of what?" said Booth. Brennan felt like laughing. He hadn't noticed. That was, well, a little bit hilarious.

"Uhhh," said Ms. Summers, "Yeah? I don't know. I don't know a lot of things right now. I'm so sorry to dump this mess on you—God, I was trying to be a comfort tonight, not a burden—but can we come in? I have to make sure he's okay and...figure some things out."

The girl shook her head. "Buffy, I really need this day to be over. With Maddy and everything, I can't—Look, you can use my apartment for whatever you need, but I'm _not_ inviting anyone in. And I'm going to bed." With that the girl retreated into the apartment, leaving the door wide open.

Ms. Summers hit the doorframe with her forehead. "I'm a terrible person," she said.

"Nope," said Spike.

Angel reached for her shoulder, then seemed to reconsider. "We'll wait out here," he told her instead.

Ms. Summers nodded. "Booth and...doctor lady, c'mon."

They followed her into the apartment, Temperance still holding Booth's arm. It was not exactly a nice place to live, but it was clean and neat. Rather too clean and neat for an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old woman.

"My name is Dr. Brennan. Temperance Brennan."

"What?"

"You seem to have forgotten."

"Oh. Sorry."

"I think there's blood on my collar," said Booth.

Temperance found herself wanting to smile.

"Yep," said Ms. Summers. She led them into a tiny bathroom. "There should be..." She opened the mirrored cabinet and began pulling things out, placing them on the back of the toilet. Bandages, antiseptic, band-aids, a washcloth. "There. I'll be right back." She was gone only thirty seconds (an extremely quiet thirty seconds) and returned with an ice pack. "Okay. I'm gonna...go." She did.

In the absence of Ms. Summers, Temperance felt unaccountably awkward. It took her a moment to realize why: it had been nearly a month since she and Booth were last alone together.

"Sit down," she said finally, "and I'll look at your cut."

••••••••••••

Booth wasn't thinking about Buffy. He wasn't thinking about those two men: not about who they were, not about _what_ they were, not about why Buffy trusted them. Just now he wasn't thinking about vampires at all; his sore jaw and leaking head were only background noise.

He wasn't thinking about these things, or, really, anything at all, because, for the first time in 27 days, Temperance Brennan was touching him.

Had been touching him, in fact, for ten minutes straight. Holding his arm, even after he'd remembered how to stand up and _noticed_ that she was holding his arm. Standing with him, in his corner, on his side, regardless of what side that was. Serene in the middle of a cyclone, a crutch to lean on, a rock to hold. Even as the universe was stripped of any sense of internal logic, it had regained its balance.

He was becoming a lovesick puppy, wasn't he? Had been for a while, if he was honest with himself. _Huh, something about a puppy, a lost puppy...earlier...Angel. _And just like that Booth knew—in that way that drove Bones crazy—absolutely knew that Angel was in love with Buffy.

And then Bones stabbed him in the head.

"Shit!"

"It's only iodine."

"Warn me next time, okay?"

"I simply assumed that the pain associated with an antiseptic would be a great deal less than that associated with a gunshot wound."

He took a moment to unpack that. "Yeah. And if I could get people to give me a heads up before they shoot me, I would."

"That would be extremely impractical if the goal is to—"

"What's going on, Bones?"

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"Yes you do."

"I mean specifically. There are a large number of possibilities—an infinite number, actually. It's a very general phrase, and there have been so many odd events recently..."

He should be annoyed. She was being annoying. But—lovesick puppy.

"Okay. More specific. How did you find out about...about..." Was he really about to say the word vampire in front of Bones,_ and _expect her to take it seriously?

She did it for him. "About vampires? Angel broke into the Jeffersonian."

"He what?"

"Broke into the museum. Very impressive, really. He must be both highly intelligent _and_ extremely agile. Although I suppose two-hundred and fifty years of accumulated knowledge would make anyone appear unusually intelligent."

"Two—two-hundred and fifty _years_?"

"I believe it was two-hundred and fifty-seven, actually."

Booth couldn't take that in. It was part of the whole vampire myth, of course, and Buffy had probably mentioned it at some point, but there'd been so going on that he hadn't stopped to think. Immortality. Actual immortality. Two and a half centuries of it. That man had been born in the 1700s. And Booth had tried to kill him.

He suddenly felt a lot better about failing.

Bones was still talking, casually messing around on his head. "...however I think Spike is younger. The way they interact could easily be some variant of father-son relationship, although so far I've learned very little of vampire familial dynamics. Or if they typically have them at all. Spike and Angel are very unusual, or so I gather."

_Get her back on track._ "So, he broke in?"

"Yes. He was looking for those remains you found at the warehouse. They were victims of vampires, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"Oh. Well, he saw the murders in the paper, and was worried one or more of them had been made into vampires and might hurt someone. I was working late and I heard fighting—"

"He's the mysterious vampire killer!"

"What?"

"The missing body. Buffy said she was dusted, but she had no idea who did it."

"Oh. Yes. Your head isn't bad. It's not a small cut—I think you hit some glass when you fell down—but it will heal all right." She moved on to his jaw, which put her face terribly—wonderfully—close to his. He did his best not to react.

"I didn't fall down; I was _knocked_ down. And wouldn't I have noticed if I'd fallen on glass?"

"How much have you had to drink?"

He chose not to answer that.

She didn't belabor the point; she knew she'd won. "I really can't do much for your jaw. It's going to look terrible tomorrow."

"I'm aware, Bones. I've been punched before." _Not by a vampire, but still. _"You caught him, and he just told you what he was?"

"Not exactly. I pulled the alarm and insisted he tell me what happened to the body."

"And he did?"

"Eventually."

Booth had no trouble at all imagining how Bones had forced a 250-year-old vampire to tell her his life story. That was...he'd fallen in love with an incredibly terrifying woman.

"So he just happened to be looking out for the welfare of random people he'd never met?"

"I think that's what he does. He helps people."

"So he's Superman."

"As far as I know, he is unable to fly."

"So he's Batman."

"That would be a fairly accurate analogy, yes."

That was it: his life had become a comic book. And he wasn't even the star.

He stood, examining himself in the sink mirror. He looked terrible: his entire cheek was turning purple, his head looked like someone had slashed at it with a pocket knife, and his hair was sticking up all over the—_oh._

Booth knew why Angel had looked so familiar: he saw him every day. In the mirror.

••••••••••••

The silence in the hallway had its own personality. It was shy, awkward, a little needy, probably a teenager. A stranger, but a really familiar one, as if she was meeting the child of two old friends somewhere weird, like on a beach in Hawaii, or in the middle of Grand Central Station; its features were familiar, yet the arrangement was all wrong.

She was thinking of naming it Fred.

Angel and Spike, through some sort of vampire mind-communication thingy, had apparently decided that, seeing as Buffy had declared herself in charge, she was solely responsible for killing Fred. But she was rather attached to Fred at this point, and found it hard to stomach murdering him in cold blood.

When Dawn was little—this was BV: Before Vampires—she was one of those kids who named all the lobsters in the tank. She'd tell stories about how this lobster was married to that lobster, these two were twins, this one had broken the other's heart but he felt bad about it and still loved her. As soon as they were led to their table Dawn forgot all about her new friends, but it was too late: they were people now, and Buffy would not allow anyone to touch a hair (or claw) on their body.

This was also the explanation for Spike.

Another minute of silence and Buffy was going to go all nutso on innocent things, like the wall. Time to kill the lobster.

"So, ummm, what are you doing here? You know, together."

This amused Spike. "Together?"

"Ye—you know what I mean."

"Actually Buffy, I don't think I do." Angel's brows were creased in that way that always used to make her want to kiss him.

"I mean, when did you guys go all buddy cop movie?"

Angel grimaced. "Never, I would hope."

"Things change. Been a while since we had the pleasure, pet."

Buffy couldn't _believe_ that. "Yeah. Been a while. Seven years, in fact. One of which I spent thinking you were dust. Care to explain?"

That was really something: Spike at a loss for words. A pity she was too angry to savor it.

"What? Too busy to take a couple minutes out of your day? Forget how to work a phone?"

Angel jumped in. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but in his defense—"

"And you! I know _you _know how to use a telephone. Didn't think I'd be interested in the sudden non-deadness of someone I cared about? Don't think it's newsworthy when you challenge the forces of hell _to a duel_?"

Angel with nothing to say? That was just business as usual.

"Okay. We'll try an easy one: what is the soulful dead brigade doing in Washington?"

"You didn't trust me anymore," said Angel, so quietly she barely heard him.

"What?"

Angel was staring at a spot somewhere to the right of Buffy's shoes. "He said—he said you didn't trust me. That none of you did."

Buffy desperately wanted to hug him, he looked so hurt. "He?"

"Andrew."

Startled blue eyes went first to Angel, then to her. She shifted under Spike's gaze, feeling he was accusing her of something, she wasn't sure what.

"A-Andrew?" _Oh God, what did the dumbass do now?_

"He said no one in your camp trusted me anymore. Said you gave the orders. Said that—that you couldn't trust me with one of your own."

"I don't know what—oh. Dana. Angel, I didn't mean—" No mistaking it. Spike was angry at her. But she didn't have time to figure out why; Angel looked like he was about to freeze over.

"Angel. Look at me." He did. _So not a good Angel face._ "I never, _never_ told Andrew I didn't trust you. But I did say...I told him we couldn't trust Wolfram & Hart with one of our own." Angel turned away, and she couldn't see his face, and she started to freak. "I just wanted other slayers to take care of her; it was never about you. Andrew, he...he does that. Makes up stories. Maybe Giles said something to him, I mean, back then he was worried about you losing perspective—I don't know. I'm sorry, I should have sent someone else, but Andrew was the only one in the states, and there was this whole zombie thing in Scotland and Xander nearly got himself killed and then Dawn had this run-in with a thricewise and I had to find Willow but she does this thing where she goes sporadically AWOL and—"

Spike grabbed her arm. "Okay love. S'okay." She had a sudden, vivid memory of dancing faster and faster, smoke rising, welcoming the end...and Spike's hand, just where it was now, anchoring her to the earth. It had felt like sinking back then. It didn't anymore.

Spike took his hand away, but she could still feel the anchor.

"Angel?"

He turned back, and he was smiling—sort of. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault. Anyway, it's no big deal."

_No big deal? Yeah, right._ "Oh. Okay..." suddenly anything else felt like a safe subject. "What brings you to, um, here?" Her voice came out high-pitched and weirdly formal. Also, had she just forgotten where she was?

It was Spike who answered. "Here being D.C. or here being this hallway?"

Buffy gave him a look with mildly violent undertones.

He rolled his eyes. "In D.C. on Peaches-can't-let-it-go evil lawyers business. In this hallway on account of me gettin' spooked by a phrase I happened to hear on the telly."

She had completely forgotten about that. Too bad it couldn't stay that way.

"Yeah. Saw it. Really hoping it's some kind of majorly not funny joke."

"Not likely."

"Nope."

"D'ya think—"

Beth's door opened. Booth's head appeared.

"Um, hi," said Buffy.

Booth said nothing. Instead he stared at Angel.

Ten seconds passed. Thirty seconds. A minute.

"Jesus," said Booth, and shut the door again.

"Guess he got hold 'uv a mirror," said Spike.


	11. Interruptions

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author: **random shoes  
**Disclaimer: **Don't get mad at me Joss! I love you and would sort your mail or take out your garbage or paint your house if you asked.**  
Spoilers: **None, actually. Not a one. Odd... Oooh! Guess what? Angel is a vampire!**  
Author's Note: **This chapter's a short one, and a bit different. And yes, I know this isn't the most original thing I've ever written but, well, the magic cephalopod made me do it.  
The good news: I am now in possession of a grand and complicated plot. He just showed up on my doorstep the other night, spewing explanations and wearing a lovely grey hat. The bad news: he did this at a time (4 a.m.) when I really should have been sleeping.  
Oh, and yes, Booth has absolutely read Harry Potter. He has a ten-year-old son. How could he not have?

* * *

_Interruptions_

**12:37 a.m.**

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit sh—_

"Booth? Are you quite all right?"

_All right? All right?_ _No_. _Not at all. Not even a little._ He was pacing up and down the entryway, couldn't seem to stop walking. _What the hell? What the HELL?_

"Booth?"

Stop feet. Turn around. Look at partner.

"Bones? Is it, um, _possible_ that I have a two-hundred-year-old undead body double?"

"Two-hundred and fifty-seven."

"Bones..." _Do not strangle partner do not strangle partner do not—_

"Well, I had noticed a resemblance, yes. Although his hair sticks up rather more than—"

"—and were you, I don't know, going to _mention_ this to me at some point?"

"I suppose in all the commotion I forgot about it."

"For-forgot?"

"Yes. Once you get over the initial surprise it's rather easy. The two of you are so very different in personality that—"

"I need to sit down." He did, on the floor, knees bent, back against the wall.

"There are chairs in th—never mind." She sat down next to him.

What did this mean? Booth's intoxicated and possibly concussed brain couldn't sort it out. He didn't even know why this thing, of all the many things, was freaking him out so much. Straw that broke the camel's back? More like anvil that broke the camel's back. He liked his back the way it was. Well, mostly. And he didn't want to be a camel. Oh _God _his head hurt. Maybe if he held it together it wouldn't explode?

"I'm worried that you have a concussion."

"Mmm."

"Booth?"

"I just want to sleep, Bones."

"That is exactly what I was worried about. If you have a concussion you shouldn't sleep for more than two hours at a time."

He groaned. Great. Another night of not-quite-sleeping. Just what the doctor ordered. Or, well, it _was_ what the doctor ordered but...shit.

"You will need someone to wake you up and to make sure your mental function is not impaired. And, unless there is someone else you would like to ask, I am perfectly capable of assisting you."

Through the haze of confusion, alcohol, and general exhaustion, a distant part of his brain was telling him this was an extremely desirable plan.

"Okay. Thanks, Bones."

They sat in silence then, which gave Booth time to become aware of her shoulder pressed against his, and her calf nudging his foot, and her hip _almost_ touching his. If scooted over, just a little...

Buffy appeared in front of him. Maybe she'd apperated, like in Harry Potter. Nothing could surprise him right now.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Possibly. In a few decades."

"I'm sorry. Was it, was it Angel?"

"Something like that. Buffy?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm gonna go home now, okay?"

"I—okay."

Bones stood up. "I will drive you."

He nodded, and pulled himself to his feet. "Oh. Bones? My car is down the block."

"We can get it tomorrow." There was no arguing with that particular tone, so he simply followed her to the door.

"Uh, goodnight Buffy."

"Night. You—you are gonna be all right, right?"

"Yes. He will be fine," said Bones.

* * *

**3:04 a.m.**

"Booth?"

"Mmm?"

"What is the capital of South Carolina?"

"Wha?"

"What is the capital of South Carolina?"

"S'a weird dream..."

"It's not a dream, Booth. I need to ascertain your mental state."

"Don' know."

"What?"

"_Don't know the capital of fucking South Carolina!_"

"What about Florid—"

"Go away!"

"Okay, Booth."

_Laughing. She was laughing. Mmm, pillow._

* * *

**4:49 a.m.**

_She was laughing at him. Running, and laughing at him, and running some more. And calling his name. Over and over, calling his name. The grass that had started at his ankles was now around his ears, scratching and cutting his arms as he ran, and still Bones was just a flash of dark brown in the yellow blur. "Bones! Wait up!" But she just kept laughing. She was going to get lost, or hurt, or...if he could just catch her..._

A hand grabbed his shoulder. "Booth! Wake up!"

He did her one better: he was out of the bed and crouching on the floor in under two seconds.

Bones jumped backward, stumbled, and caught herself. "Oh! I—I apologize. I was having difficulty waking you up. I didn't intend to startle you."

Booth stood up straight, realizing abruptly that he was standing in front of Bones, in his boxers. And she was wearing his shirt. "Uhh...I still don't know what the capital of South Carolina is, so..."

"Columbia."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Okay."

"It's a very good sign that you remember that conversation."

"Uh, great. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"I don't see why not."

He slid sideways back into his bed, afraid to take his eyes off her, as if she was a wild animal. Tiger? Panther? Some kind of big cat.

"Goodnight—well, technically it is morning, however it is—"

"Goodnight, Bones."

"Night, Booth.

* * *

**6:11 a.m.**

"Irish!"

Booth's own shout woke him. It apparently also woke Bones, who pushed into his room almost immediately, looking startled, disheveled and, oh. Kinda sexy.

"What is it?"

"What is what?"

"You just yelled the word 'Irish.'"

"Oh. Huh. I did, didn't I?"

"Booth, I don't like this. It reminds me too much of, of last year. I think maybe we should take you in—"

"No, I remember. It's not—my head's fine." Booth swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He needed to feel solid ground.

"Are you sure? Because if it was, you would have no way—"

"Is Angel Irish?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is Angel Irish?"

"What makes you—"

"The last couple a days, people kept asking me if my family was Irish. First Buffy, then, uh, Billy Idol. And I think I just realized why: Angel's from Ireland, isn't he? Originally, I mean. When he was human."

"Well, yes, I believe he is."

"Oh Jesus."

"Booth—"

"They were asking because of how I look. They were asking because they thought we were...that I am...that he's my great-great-great-great-great...something. Is that—do you think that's possible?"

"I suppose so. It's often incredibly difficult to trace genealogies that far back, depending, of course, on the level of documentation—"

"Or you could just ask him."

"Oh. Wow. Yes, I guess we could."

"Seeing as he was probably there."

"That is rather amazing, isn't it? It's an unbelievable historical reference."

"Um, Bones?"

"Yes?"

"Promise me you're not going to try some sort of vampire historical survey? I like you, you know, alive."

She smiled, a big one. It made him feel a little breathless.

"I promise. At any rate I can just call Angel and Spike."

That didn't improve his mood a whole lot. Although, if Buffy trusted them...what did he know about it, really?

"I guess I should go back to sleep."

Bones nodded, started to turn, and then came toward him.

"Bones?" She reached out and touched his forehead. _Mmmm._

"Are you sure you're feeling normal?"

"I'm not hallucinating, Bones. At least, not unless _you're_ a hallucination." If she was a mirage she was going to take his chin in her hand right now, and tilt it up, and lean down, and...he almost wished she wasn't real. Almost.

But of course she didn't kiss him. She just looked into his eyes for a disconcerting amount of time, until she found whatever it was she was looking for. "Okay," she said, and turned and left the room.

"Okay," he said, and got back into bed.

* * *

**8:15 a.m.**

"Booth? Booth?"

"It's Columbia!"

"Tssht. That is correct."

* * *

**Next time: B&B go back to work with a secret and Buffy brings in the cavalry.**


	12. Back to the Grind

**Title: **Life With the Dead  
**Author: **random shoes  
**Disclaimer:** I have kidnapped other people's babies and am using them for my own nefarious ends. Which, I promise, do not involve monetary transactions of any kind. So, that's okay, right?  
**Spoilers: **Um, Sunnydale goes boom? Booth is in love with Brennan? Seriously, if you don't know this stuff...  
**Author's Note: **I'M ALLLIIIIVVVVVVE. So, yeah. Life happened. College happened. Other writing happened. But I didn't forget about this.

I dedicate this chapter to bookworm1137, for her lovely reviews, weirdly psychic timing, and general awesome-ness. Also because she likes Buffy, Bones, Doctor Who, AND Jane Austen, and is therefore my clone.

* * *

_Back to the Grind_

Temperance was making coffee when Booth finally got out of the shower.

"How does your head feel?"

"Fine. Well, sore. Coffee?"

"It should be done soon."

Booth opened the fridge and stared into it for a while. A stray drop of water ran down his temple and over his bruised jaw. She doubted he was contemplating the food.

"You should be sure to stay hydrated today."

"Yeah."

Booth closed the refrigerator—without removing anything—and glanced up at the clock. "It's almost nine."

"Yes. You needed to sleep."

"Bones?"

"Yes?"

"If I ask you a question, will you promise to just answer, and not get worried or anything?"

That made her nervous. "I suppose..."

"Did—what happened last night?"

"I don't know what you—"

"Bones—"

"Well, Spike punched you."

He let out a large amount of air. "Okay."

"Booth, I don't understand what—"

"I didn't want to be the first to bring up, uh, vampires."

"Technically you _were _the first to bring them up, or at least to use the word." The coffee was done. Finally.

"You know what I mean. I was afraid you'd drag me to the hospital, and I wasn't sure if it was just a really vivid dream or...not."

She grabbed two mugs and filled them, giving the larger, childishly painted one to Booth and keeping the standard FBI issue for herself. "I understand. Yesterday, when I woke up, I had to seriously consider the possibility that I had either dreamed or hallucinated Angel. But I realized that I had his card, and that those remains were still missing, and therefore it was very unlikely to be all in my mind."

"Yeah."

"Still..." she suddenly felt nervous, but she kept going anyway. "...I believe it would have been nice to have someone to talk to about it."

He smiled, for the first time that morning. "Well, now you can talk to me."

She smiled back. "Yes. Now I can."

* * *

Bones dropped him off at his car, which by some miracle was both where he'd left it, and in one piece. He drove to headquarters in silence: no radio, no music. He fully intended to spend the time thinking—pondering the all-important_what the fuck just happened _question—but instead he sat in a sort of blank trance, afraid that if he thought of anything he would have to think of everything.

He made his way up to his office on autopilot, the trance slipping somehow into a contemplation of Bones standing in his bedroom, hair mussed, wearing his shirt and a pair of oversized shorts. If only he could forget all the actual reasons for this and just...

Agent Perrota. Standing in front of his office. Holding up a sheet of paper. "Is this accurate?"

"Is what accurate?"

"Dr. Brennan and her team found _nothing_ at the scene?"

"Senator Morgan's office? I saw Hodgins pick up a leaf."

"So nothing."

"If that's what it says."

"Right. Got anything on those phrases from the video? _Slayers_? _From beneath you it devours_?"

"I, um, actually gave that to Williams. I have a multiple homicide, and if my squints can't help with the Morgan case..."

"Yeah. Okay." She squinted at his face. He realized he had a giant, unexplained bruise on his jaw. Damn.

But apparently she decided it was none of her business, because all she said was, "Have fun with your multiple homicide," and then she was off, finally clearing the path to his desk, and thank God: his back wasn't in the best shape this morning.

The phone rang about six seconds after his ass touched the chair. It was Cam.

"Where have you been?"

"I'm great. How are—"

"Shut up. I've got six bodies—I'm sorry, _five—_and you've been AWOL since...no, actually, that's my first question: have you found my remains?"

"Not exactly—"

"What are you doing to find them?"

"I...um—"

"This isn't like you. What's going on?"

"Oh, not too much. Just a kidnapped senator."

"Half the department is on that case, Seeley, and you know it. These murders are your responsibility, not the senator. Six people aren't coming home, and we need to find out why. _That's_ what we do. So whatever your issue is, get over it. And get over here."

She hung up.

"God help me," Booth said, to his empty office.

••••••••••••

Sometimes a few days can change so much, _everything_, and still you find yourself exactly where you were when they began.

So here he was, standing in front of the Jeffersonian, staring at those evil stone lions, unable to force himself to put one foot in front of the other. What was he going to say to Cam? To all of them?

"Lost in thought again?" That same security guard, looking amused.

"Oh. Hi."

"If you don't mind me saying, you seem to be an unusually thoughtful man."

"Only this week."

The guard turned to stare at the entrance, hands clasped behind his back in mock contemplation. "Well, all things considered, a museum isn't the worse place for thinking."

"Meaning, get my ass in there?"

"I like to think I'm more polite than that, but yes. You're making the tourists nervous."

"We wouldn't want that."

Okay. Charging into the lion's den with no plan. Nothing he hadn't done a million times. With, you know, mostly all right results.

It wasn't the lion that pounced on him, but the lion's...um, cub? Hyena? Oh, screw the metaphor. Angela saw him first.

"You look terrible."

"Thanks."

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Yes, actually. Do you want to know the capital of South Carolina?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

She tilted her head. "Your cheek is bruised. Did somebody hit you?"

_Yeah: Billy Idol_. "I walked into a door frame last night."

"You do realize you sound like a battered wife, right?" She put on a meek, high-pitched voice. " 'Honest-to-God, officer, he would never hurt me. It's my fault; I'm just so clumsy you see.' I'm not stupid, Booth. Something's up. And I'm guessing it's not good."

"Maybe I'm just going blind. Or getting old. I feel pretty old today."

"Booth—"

"There you are!" And here came the lion.

Angela faded into the background, proving her point about not being stupid.

"Booth. I need you to find my remains, and find them now. Hey! Look at me. Somebody broke into _our_ house, and stole evidence. The Booth I know wouldn't stand for that."

"Cam, I'm doing all I can. This case is...I don't know what to do with it." That was true, at least.

"So you just give up?"

"No. I haven't given up. Dozens of my people are working on this, but there's nothing. And with the senator—"

"You didn't ask me if we IDed the victims."

"Did you—"

"Yes. And Hodgins has some stuff for you. We're doing our job, Seeley. Please do yours."

How could she walk so fast in those heels? It wasn't human.

Pushing down the thoughts associated with "not human," he headed for the one place in this building he wanted to be.

She wasn't at her desk. The disappointment he felt was almost ridiculous. He wanted, needed to talk to her, to relax, to be with someone who knew what had happened. And he wanted to bask. His world might have turned upside down and backwards, but all the insanity of the last few days had accomplished the impossible: it had pushed them back into their private world of two. It was like they had their on little club house, and none of the others could enter. He felt comfortable with her again, and that was worth any amount of crazy.

He started to turn away, but something—his gut, maybe—made him walk into the office, just to be sure.

As usual, his gut was right.

She was asleep on the couch, and, God, she was beautiful. There was something soft about Bones sleeping that overcame the sharp lines of her face. Five years as her partner had afforded Booth only a dozen precious moments to see her this way: peaceful, dreaming, open. He wanted, just once, to see her as comfortable awake, for her to look at him without the hard shell. Preferably lying in his arms, half-clothed.

_Lovesick fucking puppy._ There was nothing for Booth to do but embrace it. Since the moment she'd punched that worthless excuse for a judge in the nose, _twice_, every other woman had faded into the background, like some corny movie effect.

She stirred, and it was only then that two things occurred to him.

One: He was watching her sleep, like a creeper.

Two: Why was she sleeping, at work, in the middle of the morning?

She opened her eyes. "Booth?"

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did you get any sleep?"

She sat up, smoothing out her hair. "I believe I got some, yes."

"How much?"

"I really can't say—"

"How much?"

She shook her head. "An hour, maybe two?"

_Damn_. He took a seat on the opposite sofa. "I'm sorry."

"It is in no way your fault, Booth."

He was no longer reluctant to bring up last night. In fact, he was almost eager. Which was fucked up.

"No, I guess we should blame that on Billy Idol."

"Billy Idol? I don't know what that means."

"He's a singer, Bones. From the eighties?"

"Well, all right, although I fail to see how he is relevant to the discussion."

Booth just managed not to laugh, or at least not audibly. "Spike. I meant Spike. He dresses exactly like Billy Idol."

"Oh." Her brow crinkled. "Why do you suppose he does that?"

"No idea, Bones. Vampires aren't exactly my area of expertise."

"But human behavior is, and Spike and Angel behave very much like humans."

"Maybe. I don't know about that." He brushed off the topic. "Bones, what are we going to do about the case?"

"What exactly is there 'to do'? We know what happened. And as for the killers, I was under the impression that your friend had, uh, slayed them. Is that not the case?"

"Well yes, she did, but—"

At this point Hodgins barged in, leaving Booth to wonder if he'd imagined the odd note in her voice on the word 'friend.'

"We've got one!"

This, like most things Hodgins said, meant nothing to Booth. "One what?"

"One of the people! The DNA in the ash."

"Oh."

"His name was Jacob Roberts. A rapist who, get this, went missing nearly three decades ago. But that's not the weird part," Hodgins paused, expecting a reaction.

He didn't get one.

"...the _weird_ part is that after he was reported missing, he was found dead. Probably murdered. And then he was buried. And all this happened in 1983." Hodgins stopped, again waiting for a response, and again getting nothing. "Explain that."

Booth was perfectly capable of explaining that, but he sure as hell wasn't going to. For one thing, Hodgins might say "I told you so." And that was a fate worse than death.

"Good work, Dr. Hodgins," Bones said, not looking at him. Booth made a face at Bones that he hoped said _that's what I was talking about_. Or maybe just _I told you so_. That would do.

Hodgins gave Bones a look exactly like the one Booth had received from Angela. "Okay, Dr. Brennan, what's going on?"

She didn't know what to say. He was kind of enjoying that.

But he still had no idea how to get out of this mess.

Then Bones found her words. "Something's happening," she said.

It was. Several dozen people, all wearing some kind of uniform, were swarming the lab platform, picking things up, turning on computers, blocking Jeffersonian employees from interfering.

_What the hell?_ Booth thought.

"..the hell?" Hodgins said.

"This is rather absurd," Bones said.

_What? _"What?"

"This is the second time in three months that armed men have taken over the lab. I officially have a right to be paranoid." Booth had to admit—to himself, at least—that Hodgins had a point.

* * *

Before Sunnydale went all concave, Buffy spent very little time in airports. She was a California girl born and bred, venturing into the air only for the occasional grandparent visit. But now...well, she knew exactly how many boots and jackets she could shove into her suitcase and still have room for actual clothes.

Their plane was late. This meant that she was stuck sitting in baggage claim with Rona and Vi for forty minutes. Not that she had anything against Rona and Vi—actually, yes, she had something against Rona and Vi: they were annoying. Vi was way excitable and Rona was, well, grumpy. All the time. Of course they were her girls and she would die for them, but that didn't mean she wanted to _talk_ to them.

And yet, there was talking. Mostly on the part of Vi.

"Do you—do you think it's really happening again?"

Rona rolled her eyes. Buffy answered, forcing herself to be patient, even thought Vi had been asking this, or some version of this, every hour since she'd returned to the hotel this morning. "I don't know, Vi, but I'd rather overreact than...underreact."

Rona looked at her. "Is that even a word?"

"It should be."

"Yeah, well, life's not real fond of doing what it 'should.'"

_Yes, thanks for pointing that out, Rona. I hadn't noticed that at all. _But sarcasm directed at Rona just led to a sort of atomic sarcasm war, and Buffy was tired.

"Do you think their plane is late?"

"She _doesn't know!_"

"Rona! It's fine. I'll go look again." She had seriously underestimated Rona's bad mood. Also Vi's tendency towards acting like a small child. _Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?_ Buffy didn't like playing Mommy. And not just because she sucked at it. It reminded her of times with Dawn, mistakes and missteps she'd rather forget.

Their plane still said "On Time." This actually disappointed her. She couldn't say she was looking forward to seeing—

"Buffy, oh Buffy! A pleasure to meet you again, and on American soil, no less!"

"Hey, Andrew."

There he stood, looking fresh, oddly overdressed, and Andrew-like. Behind him stood six disheveled and obviously exhausted women.

"You'll be happy to know that our journey here was uneventful, except for a small period of turbulence, which of course made Erin very sick, but she recovered quickly, and it was only the one bathroom that smelled..." Buffy smiled at him, and helped the girls collect their baggage, and led them to the parking garage, and somehow shoved seven suitcases and ten people into the van she'd been forced to rent, and Andrew kept talking.

On a whim, she handed him the keys.

"Oh! Thank you milady. I am honored by your trust."

Buffy sort of half nodded, half grunted. Andrew always brought out a part of her that she could only describe as masculine—in other words: uncommunicative, easily annoyed, and generally _grrrr_.

She slid into the front passenger seat, instructed Rona—who had GPS-brain—to guide Andrew, and tuned out.

Buffy wasn't fond of this pattern that was emerging. It never failed: she asked Giles to send Xander, and he hemmed and hawed...and sent Andrew instead. Not an acceptable substitute. Not ever, but especially not now. She needed someone she could _talk to_, and with Willow in one of her somewhere else phases, and Dawn in frantic schoolwork mode, and Faith stuck running their precarious new operations in Cleveland, Xander was it for people she could still call "friends." Except, he was apparently somewhere in the middle of Africa, sans cell reception. So she got Andrew. And Vi, and Rona, and six other slayers she was sure to want to strangle by morning, and no sweet Xander to make her coffee and tell her bad jokes and magically know what she was thinking.

Ooh. Maybe it was for the best. Xander wouldn't exactly be a fan of what she was thinking about. Or, rather, _who_ she was thinking about.

* * *

Cam was speaking very loudly, trying to keep people away from the remains on the platform. "Who are you? What gives you the authority to—"

A blonde woman interrupted. "Who we are is classified. This," she showed Cam an ID badge, "gives us the authority. Now please step aside."

Temperance, Booth, and Hodgins pushed their way to the platform entrance, where they were stopped by three men. One, who, judging by his manner, Temperance guessed to be in charge, stepped forward. "You need to stay back."

Angela came up behind her. "Bren? What's going on?"

Booth, in an attempt to deny this man alpha-male status, flashed his badge and stated his clearance level. The man was not impressed.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Booth. I'm Commander Finn. We believe these remains are vital to a case that has national security implications. I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you." He smiled in an extremely friendly manner. Booth glared back.

Temperance didn't understand why Booth was so upset. While she didn't enjoy people invading her lab, this did mean they would not be asked to investigate a case that they could not—in any traditional way—solve.

Hodgins grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side. Angela followed. "National security? That's bullshit. They don't want anyone to know how these people died. They're hiding the existence of vampires. Why else would they care about some ordinary serial killer? That's the FBI's department."

"Really, Jack? Vampires? You've gotten nuttier and nuttier..."

Hodgins looked hurt; Brennan felt a little sorry for him. For the first time ever, his conspiracy theory sounded reasonable to her. However, she did not feel it was wise to tell him this. "Vampires are a myth," she said instead. She hoped she sounded confident; lying was not something she had ever completely mastered. In order to avoid more conversation of this type, she drew back towards Booth.

The invaders had finished packing up most of the evidence and were carting it off the platform and towards the door. Cam followed, still loudly protesting.

"This is _my_ lab, not a playground for government goons. I'm responsible for those remains!"

The blonde woman who'd spoken to Cam earlier walked up to the alpha-male. "She won't back off. Can you talk to her?"

He shook his head. "Put yourself in her shoes, Kate. She's not having the greatest day. You must be able to sympathize."

"Riley—"

"I will deal with it."

The alpha-male started to walk away, but Booth stopped him. "Wait….Riley?" Temperance knew that voice; he only used it when he had the upper hand.

"Agent, I'm sorry but I need to g—"

"You're a friend of Buffy's."

The alpha-male stopped. "What?"

Angela looked at Booth. "Huh?"

Temperance felt rather uncomfortable. In the background, Cam continued to expostulate ineffectually.

Booth adjusted his shoulders, the way he always did before an interrogation. "She was in some trouble, and she called you." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm guessing right before you called my boss."

The alpha male was fully alert now, but cautious: he waited for Booth to elaborate.

"Wait, who?" Hodgins asked.

"There's a person named Buffy?" Angela said. For some reason this made Temperance smile.

Booth held the silence out, clearly pleased to have won back the alpha position. "Would you mind stepping aside with me?" He glanced at Brennan, "And my partner? We'd like to talk to you in private."

Commander Finn appeared unsure. He looked back and forth between them, but he didn't seem able to learn anything from their faces.

Hodgins made another attempt. "Booth? What's going on?"

"Yeah. Is Buffy code for something?" Angela tried. For some reason Commander Finn gave in at that. Perhaps because he didn't wish to have this conversation in public.

"All right. We'll talk in Dr. Brennan's office." He walked off. Booth followed him. Temperance followed Booth. Hodgins and Angela started to follow Temperance, but she gave them a look that she thought expressed _stay here_ rather well. They stayed. It seemed she was improving her non-verbal communication skills.

An uncomfortable length of time passed from when Booth closed the door to when someone finally spoke. Temperance let the silence go on, despite her discomfort, because it was obviously what Booth wanted, and she respected his need to be in control. Well, sometimes. Occasionally. When it wasn't in control of _her_.

The two alphas stared each other down. Then Finn's eyes narrowed. "Have we met before?"

Booth took a breath, let it out, and said, with clear frustration, "No. We have never met before. You are probably thinking of...someone else."

_Oh,_ thought Temperance, _This man must be acquainted with Angel_.

He let it go. "Um, well then. You mentioned something about..."

"Buffy Summers."

"Yes, Buffy."

"You had my superiors order me to release her after she was caught breaking into HQ—"

"I can neither confirm nor deny—"

"...in search of these vampire victims."

Finn stopped talking.

_So Buffy broke into the Hoover Building? _Temperance realized she had never asked Booth how he found out about vampires. Now didn't seem like the time.

Finn was recovering. "So, you...know."

"Buffy and I had a scuffle with a dead man. She won."

Finn's mouth twitched. "She usually does." He looked at Brennan. "You know too?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Well then you understand why we're taking the bodies."

"We understand. But before you leave, we need to have a conversation."

Finn did not seem pleased with Booth's tone, but he nodded.

"First, I want to make sure you know that Buffy took care of the demons responsible for these deaths, so you don't need to go looking."

"Okay."

"Second, I need to know that you are going to contact these people's families and tell them something as near the truth as possible."

"Of course. Standard procedure."

Booth closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Temperance knew he would never refer to informing victims' families as "standard" anything.

"Right. Third, this senator's disappearance—"

"We're on it."

"Of course you are. One last thing: if you go over my head or barge into this lab like you own it, _ever again_, you will have earned a dangerous enemy."

Booth's voice had become low and threatening, but Finn didn't seem to be listening; he was staring at the other man's face.

Finn stepped forward. "...Angel?" That was it for Booth. He closed his eyes, tried to breath, and then—there was no other way to describe it—proceeded to throw a temper tantrum.

"For God's sake, I am not dead! My name is Seeley Booth! I am 38 years old and I've been working with the FBI for fourteen years. I served in the First Gulf War and my parent's names were George and Carolyn Booth and I have a nine-year-old son named Parker and if one more person checks my pulse, asks about my ancestors, or calls me "Angel" I am going to stake _them_."

This speech met with complete silence.

Temperance stared at her partner, debating the safety of putting a hand on his arm. Before she could make a decision, Finn bravely broke the silence.

"Sorry, man. I remember those first days after you find out can be...rough. And the Angel thing...I mean, it's been ten years, but the resemblance is, well, striking."

"His hair looks dumb."

Finn was surprised. "You've met him?"

Booth snorted. "Yeah. Not a fan."

"Then we have something in common."

This peaked Booth's interest. "Really?"

"I only met him the once, but he did a pretty good number on me. Tossed me into some industrial pipes. I swear my leg's been off ever since."

This didn't sound like Angel to her. He must have had a good reason.

"I did get to taser him once, so there's that."

Booth was half-smiling, half-squinting. "Why...?"

"He wasn't real happy about my relationship with Buffy."

"Ah."

Temperance was confused. "What? Why would that cause him to beat you up?"

Booth snorted. Finn smirked. Brennan felt like hitting them both. "Could you please tell me what—"

"He worships the ground she walks on, Bones"

"Buffy."

"Yes. The ground Buffy walks on."

"How do you know that?"

"Because whenever she's in the room he becomes a lovesick puppy." Booth cringed a little as his own words, but recovered quickly. _What was that?_

Finn shook his head. "He's really still not over her?"

"Apparently not."

"That's vampires for ya. Always stuck in the past." Then, quieter, as if talking to himself, "Slayers too. Never move on."

Booth studied him, but didn't say anything.

Someone knocked on the glass.

They turned to see the blonde woman from earlier poke her head into the office. "Excuse me, sir. We're ready to go."

Finn nodded. Through the open door Temperance could hear Cam, still arguing with one of them.

To her surprise, Finn held out his hand. To her even greater surprise, Booth took it. Men never ceased to confuse her. "It was nice to meet you, Agent Booth." He turned to Brennan. "And I apologize for our intrusion into your lab."

"Thank you," she said. In the background, Cam was yelling something about lawyers.

Booth looked at Finn, and gestured toward the sound. "I'll go talk to Dr. Saroyan. It was nice to meet you, too." And he left the room.

Finn dipped his head to her—an oddly old-fashioned motion—and was gone. With her office once again to herself, Temperance suddenly remembered how tired she was. Seeing as they no longer had a case, there was no reason she couldn't take a little nap...

* * *

She didn't actually need to patrol. Not really. Whatever was up, it wasn't going to be solved by Buffy wandering around a graveyard in an unfamiliar city. Actually, going out on her own was probably a whole ton of stupid, considering what happened to Maddy. Xander would have told her as much, if he were here. But he wasn't, and instead she had Andrew and a bunch of strangers. A houseful of people and no one to talk to. She'd had to escape.

And yes, being out here multiplied the chances of her seeing certain vampires by about a zillion, but she honestly wasn't sure if she wanted—

There.

"God, Angel, why can't you just walk up and say 'hi' like everybody else?"

"Hi."


	13. Curiosity Killed the Cats

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
Disclaimer: **Not mine not mine not mine!**  
Spoilers:** Spike is a vampire! Angel and Buffy have a *gasp* romantic history! Booth and Brennan investigate crime!  
Nah, nothing much, but if it wasn't clear before, all things BtVS and AtS are fair game.  
**Author's Note: **I have introduced a new perspective that became necessary. No idea if it will stick around or not. I really suck at limiting the POVs...  
Oh, and unlike many of the characters in this story, I am not in fact dead. Although there was a very slight thing with a hospital... Sorry it's been so long.

* * *

_Curiosity Killed the Cats_

Temperance Brennan had always had a problem with curiosity. Not that it was a problem as far as she was concerned—she almost always learned something useful—but throughout her life others had told her that it was a "_problem_," that it made her "_rude_," that "_there are certain things you just don't ask_," and, most puzzlingly, "_curiosity killed the cat_."

But _not_ asking invariably lead to sitting on the couch, staring into space and posing hypothesis after hypothesis that she was completely unable to test. Temperance needed answers. She was nothing without answers.

She dialed. Perhaps Booth would approve; she was following her "gut" after all. Or she thought she was. Was following your gut the same as following your impulses, even if your impulses were intellectually driven?

It rang. She wondered what she was going to say.

"Yeah?" It was not Angel.

"Spike? Do you make a habit of answering Angel's phone?"

"Someone has ta. He never does."

"Is he there?"

"Nah. Prolly out stalking or staking or whatnot. 'aving fun. Killing things with her. Din' invite me."

"I don't know what you—are you intoxicated?"

"'Course I am. Can't possibly be expected to sit through the bloody Buffy and Angel show sober. Least not now it's forty-second verse, same as the first...Henry eight was a right prat...or m'I mixing my metaphors, Doc?"

Temperance understood very little of this speech; she therefore chose to continue her own line of thought. "Vampires are affected by alcohol?"

"Yeah, if we try real hard. Never lasts long, though. More's the pity."

"Fascinating. I—well, I was hoping to speak with Angel, but you could help me just as well." After all, Spike was the more talkative of the two vampires, and in her experience alcohol made most people—humans, at least—more open to questioning. "In—in all of the commotion I have been unable to learn everything I would like to about vampires. Maybe we could sit down sometime, and you could supply me with more information?"

She could hear him laughing on the other end. She didn't believe she'd said anything funny.

"You really are something, Doc." Temperance wondered why the feeling that he was mocking her didn't bother her more.

Spike had been silent a moment, considering. "Why not? Never been interviewed for Science before. Were you thinkin' tonight? I've run out of whisky and 'm not nearly drunk enough. Know any good pubs?"

* * *

Angel stepped out of the shadows.

"Hi," Buffy said.

He should not be allowed to look like that, all broody and handsome and...the same. That was the most unnatural thing about vampires: not the blood drinking or the crinkly foreheads or the sunlight allergy. That was just window dressing compared to their bizarre sameness. Not one hint of the past decade showed on Angel's face. No wrinkles, no thinning hair, no visible scars. After so long his appearance was startling, breathlessly bittersweet, like a familiar taste that carries the past with it in waves.

Her eyes skidded away from his face. It hurt to look at him, or maybe it felt good. It was hard to tell. Finally, she spoke up. "Just like old times, right?"

A small smile.

"You gonna tell me I'm in _great danger_ and then disappear into the night?"

"No."

"Angel—"

"The opposite, actually. I'm worried you're overreacting. Don't assume this is another Sunnydale on the basis of a few words."

Huh. That impersonal tone hurt just as much as it had when she was sixteen.

She resumed walking. "Boils down to the same thing, though, doesn't it? Be careful. Thanks, but I thought of that already. I've been doing this for a bit."

It occurred to her to wonder what she looked like to him. Buffy _had_ changed, of course—was still changing. She'd be thirty soon. Was he comparing her to High School Buffy? Could she possibly come out of that comparison looking like more than a tired shell of that glowing girl?

Angel had fallen into step with her, but neither looked at the other.

"Okay," he said.

They walked in silence. Buffy found herself scanning the quiet cemetery, wishing something demon-y would jump out and yell _Boo_. Anything as long as she didn't have to come up with more words.

"Buffy—"

"Um—"

Angel dipped his head towards her, ceding the floor. She really didn't want it.

"Uhh...you and Spike..."

That triggered amused-Angel voice. "Me and Spike?"

"Yeah, I mean, you still fight and everything, but it seems like you're...close." Buffy really wasn't sure why she was bringing this up. Just that the thought of the two of them, _friends_, was a little uncomfortable. Also, fascinating.

Angel didn't respond right away. At first she thought he was annoyed, but a glance at his face revealed something more interesting: he was actually considering the idea.

"Yes," he said, very quietly, "I suppose...when you fight alongside someone that long—"

"Yeah." Buffy knew.

"But it's not just that." He paused. Buffy got the feeling he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "It's also...he understands me. Usually better than I do."

Buffy smiled. "Yeah, he does that. Understand people. I really wish he'd stop."

That got a smile out of Angel, which felt good. Like a victory. Except now she'd exhausted that subject, and didn't have another one.

More walking. More silence. More gravestones.

Angel tried again. "So how have you...been?"

This was such a weirdly casual question to be coming from _Angel_ that she actually laughed. "How have I _been_? Uh...great? Terrible? I guess a lot of things. There's the usual—impending apocalypse, save the world, do it all over again, you know—and, well, with the Council gone we're in charge now, but you knew that already, and anyway I mostly wander around and help out, train new slayers and stuff like that, and, um, Dawn's in school, and most of the time she doesn't hate me, and...and I—I got older, I guess. I didn't notice, before, but being with you...I feel it."

His hand brushed hers, connected, squeezed. "Yeah. I feel it too. I'm glad." And then he let go.

Buffy suddenly felt a little sick. "It's really dead out here. I...I should probably go."

Angel looked hurt. Of course he did; she was running away again. But she just felt overwhelmed by...him. By herself. By the past, and the present, and, well, by the future. Yep, that covered everything.

"Goodbye, Buffy."

Something in his voice made her feel deeply guilty, made her unable to walk away. Instead, she put her hand on his arm, raised onto her toes and kissed his cheek...

...or tried to, except he turned his head at the last minute, and her lips landed firmly on his.

Buffy jumped back like a frightened rabbit.

"Woah, uh. That..."

"S-sorry," said Angel's voice. She couldn't look at his face right now.

"It's not your—uh, I'm gonna go now," she said.

"Yes," said Angel's voice.

Buffy turned and left, slowly. She wasn't running away. Nope. No running at all.

* * *

Angela couldn't let it go. She'd tried books. She'd tried drawing. She'd tried blasting heavy metal, a bath, masturbation, a nap, and finally a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a random episode of _True Blood_. When that didn't work, she knew it was all over. She needed to know. Curiosity got her into this disgusting job; the least it could do was get her some answers.

She drove to Bren's.

It wasn't until she'd switched off her car and was staring up at the lights of her friend's apartment that Angela finally started to plan. She had a vague idea that it was easy to get secrets out of Bren, but when pressed her memory had nothing to back that up with. Actually, it occurred to her that her friend's habit of revealing uncomfortable information had less to do with an inability to keep secrets, and more to do with an inability to know which things were secrets in the first place. Really, Bren was quite good at keeping things to herself, pathological, even. _Shit. Maybe she should try Booth first or—huh._

The lights in the apartment had gone out. Angela waited, a plan forming in her head. An evil, curiosity-fueled plan, a plan she fully intended to follow through on.

Sure enough, Bren came down the stairs a minute later, wearing an outfit that occupied the mysterious middle ground between professional and date night. Angela watched as she got into the car and pulled out of the parking space, then Angela restarted her own car, waited, and pulled out after her friend, keeping a careful two cars between them, like any good P.I.

Once, as she was nearly forced to run a red light, Angela did feel a little guilt, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that if there was ever a person who _wouldn't_ feel betrayed by discovering her best friend tailing her, that person would be Temperance Brennan.

* * *

Temperance didn't ask Spike to meet her at the Founding Fathers. She didn't know why—maybe she wanted privacy, maybe it was her gut again, or perhaps she simply couldn't imagine Spike in that familiar setting, perched next to her, on Booth's stool...

So she gave him the name of a less popular bar, one they'd passed through on a case, not seedy, but not exactly upscale either.

Spike was already seated, sprawled across the red leather booth, a glass of something dangling from his fingers, his eyes fixed disinterestedly on the television behind the bar. It was the body language of someone experienced in taking power: treat an environment like your home, and you become alpha male, master of all around you. She hypothesized that this body language was habit for Spike, as she was aware of no immediate reason he would want power over the few scattered patrons.

He continued watching television as she approached the table, although she couldn't imagine he was unaware of her presence—not with his enhanced senses.

She was right. When she neared his seat he spoke, his focus still on the television. "Could never get the hang a sports. Even your American 'football.' Not that I don't appreciate the urge for a spot a' violence, but I always figure rules sorta ruin the experience, don't ya think?"

She sat down. "Sports provide an organized place for males to compete over alpha status—and over females, of course—and do so with a reduced risk of injury or death."

Spike laughed, finally taking his eyes from the game. "Suppose that's why. I don' need to mess around. M'already dead."

Temperance couldn't think of any useful response to this.

"So, Doc, you want something to drink? Or would that compromise the integrity of the experiment?" He gestured at the table, on which sat a bottle of Jack Daniel's and an empty glass.

She considered. On one hand, she did wish to keep a clear head, in order to ensure she got what she came for. On the other hand, judging from his manner, Spike was more likely to cooperate if she treated this as a social interaction.

She reached for the bottle.

* * *

As Bren's car lead her to an unfamiliar bit of town, Angela felt a thrill of excitement. _Here we go_, she thought, as her friend parked and entered the bar. Whatever Brennan was doing here, it had to be connected to the craziness at the lab.

She was forced to circle the block a few times before she found a parking space, all the while trying to decide what to do next. Walking into the bar would be dangerous; it didn't seem crowded, so there was every chance Bren would see her. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of anything else to do.

She ended up peering awkwardly into the front window, hoping the blue and red neon of the "Open" sign wasn't lighting up her face like a Christmas tree.

Brennan's back was to her, thank God. Angela recognized her perfectly coiffed brown hair. But the man Bren was sitting with...

Was looking right at her.

Angela jumped away from the window, her heart pounding. _Shit shit shit! Had he seen her?_

She stood against the dark window of the neighboring shop, breathing in and out, letting a minute pass, two, three, four, until she got up the courage to look again.

Brennan and the man were deep in conversation. The man was gorgeous. No, not gorgeous; Booth was gorgeous. This man was sexy. Sexy and dangerous. His clothes, his demeanor, everything screamed bad news. What was Dr. Temperance Brennan doing with a guy like that? Had to be case related. Except, where was Booth? And, if it wasn't case related, what would he do if he found out?

Probably get into a fist fight with the guy. She had a sudden memory of Booth's bruised jaw. _Maybe he already had_.

That was it. She had to get closer.

Angela ducked inside, trying for a casual air. Neither of them looked up. She took a seat at the end of the bar, as far from the couple (_couple?_) as she could get, and quietly ordered a drink. Feeling oddly pleased with herself, Angela began her surveillance.

* * *

"Nineteenth Century London? You are not joking?"

"Bit of a shock, huh? Wouldna had me pegged for a Victorian gentleman?"

"No, I must admit that I would not have guessed that as your origin."

Spike half-smiled at her. "I don' mean to be rude—well, s'pose I do—but why d'ya talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like a bloody robot."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Course ya don't."

Brennan poured herself another drink. This was going surprisingly well. "But your accent is—"

"Yeah. Went through a bit of a rebellion against that part of me self. Plus, it was how Dru talked, so—"

"Dru?"

"Drusilla. My sire. Total nutter but...sweet. Been a time since I saw her."

"So you developed this accent soon after you were...is 'turned' the correct expression?"

"It'll do. Yeah, wanted a clean break from my human self. Never thought much a him."

"And Angel did the same thing?"

"Wha?"

"Changed his accent after he was 'turned.'"

"Nah, that was later. After the soul. Ran off to America to brood, ditched the Mick accent along with any semblance of manhood 'e 'ad left." Spike took a swig directly from the bottle. "Reckon you're right though, s'really the same thing. Didn't want to be reminded of what he'd been. Wanker."

A perfect opening to ask...

"What's your relationship with Angel?"

Spike snorted. "What is my relationship with the deceased? Well, Doc, that's a complicated question, innit?"

Brennan felt she was being mocked, but chose not to react. "Complicated?"

"Well, Angelus was Dru's sire. Which makes him my grandsire. Not so sure what that means, but..."

"Angel's a father figure for you?"

Spike sat up. "Not bloody likely!" He stopped himself, took a breath, and eased back into his casual slouch. "Dru used to call 'im 'Daddy,' sure, but," He shrugged, "by that logic Dru'd be me mother, and, well, let's just say I've had plenty run-ins with Freud, 'nuff to last me a couple a lifetimes."

Brennan desperately wanted to know what he meant by this, but she could tell by the way he wasn't looking directly at her that this was a dangerous area. After a moment, Spike seemed to snap out of whatever thought process had been engaging him.

"Anyway, _Angelus _was my grandsire. Not Angel."

"You talk as if they're two different people."

"So does Angel."

"Yes, I noticed that. I also noticed that you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Talk about your, uh, pre-soul self as a separate entity."

Spike tried to smile. "No."

"But you did refer to your human self as 'him'?"

"Yea."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not in denial about who I am. I'm a vampire. The Ponce, well, he can't live with that pa'ticular fact. It eats 'im up inside."

This assessment seemed, judging from her own experience with Angel, to be fairly accurate.

"But you _have_ killed people."

Spike put down the bottle and turned to look directly at her. His eyes were rather disconcerting.

"Yes."

"Many people."

"Yes."

It occurred to Temperance that it might be prudent to be careful around this man. "And that is all right with you?"

"No."

She relaxed a little.

"Point is, it's me who killed them. Not some pure evil demon alter-ego. Me." He picked up his glass again.

"But you were possessed by a demon."

The rest of Spike's drink disappeared down his throat. "Still am."

"But you don't kill anymore?"

He looked down at that. "Not unless I have to." A smile. "'m not a saint."

"You would never kill for sport."

Spike glanced at the television. "Not only for that, no."

"Then you're no different from most people."

He smiled at her. She smiled back, feeling oddly happy. She suspected she was somewhat intoxicated.

"You're all right, Doc. Not like most people."

"Thank you." She took another drink. "Booth is just the same."

"Eh?"

"He's like Angel. Extremely attached to his dichotomy of 'good' and 'evil.'"

"White hats."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm more of a grey hat, myself."

"I don't—"

Spike's eyes had fixed on something over her right shoulder.

"Spike? What is it?"

"Some bint is staring at us."

Temperance twisted around. In the corner of the bar was... "Angela?"

* * *

Buffy's day really needed to end. Now. Or, even better, an hour ago. Before she'd kissed Angel. Or he'd kissed her. Or their lips had accidentally—gah! Day over. Sleep now.

She moved swiftly up the motel's sparsely lit outdoor stairs and toward her own room, careful to trend softly in front of Andrew's window. She didn't think she could handle anyone at the moment, but if _Andrew_ came anywhere near her she might just stake him.

She slid her keycard into the door. Red light. She tried again. Red. Okay, slower. Green! Yes—and she dropped her card.

"Motherfucker!" _Just what she needed!_

As she bent down to retrieve it, her door opened. In front of her nose stood a pair of men's shoes.

"Buffy?" That was not Andrew's voice.

She straightened, card in hand, momentarily searching for some way to use it as a weapon. Then the familiarity of the voice and the face it belonged to took hold. "Riley? What's going on?"

"We've got something on the senator."

"Yeah..." Buffy stepped into the room and tossed her coat onto the bed. "Thing is, my day was _over_."

* * *

Bren and the hottie were deep in conversation and deep into a bottle of booze. Despite constant straining on the part of Angela's ears, she had managed to catch only one sentence, and that one only because he'd nearly shouted it.

Apparently, the hottie was English.

In the meantime, she'd been hit on by two bar flies in a row. The first one backed off after a simple glare, but the second one didn't stop pestering her until she came out with "Look, dude, I like pussy." The half-truth shut him up, finally, but he'd wasted five minutes she could have spent investigating. This was not going well. Maybe she should have left the detecting to Booth and Bren.

She allowed her gaze to linger a bit on the English hottie, wondering what connection this man could possibly have to her formal, socially impaired best friend. Now that she had a good view of him, he looked a lot like...was he wearing a Halloween costume? In April?

Brennan was talking to Billy Idol. With sharper cheekbones. And softer eyes—that were looking right at her.

Before she could react to his—suddenly much harder—gaze, Bren turned around.

"Angela?"

Okay...there was no way out of this. She'd have to play it cool.

She walked up to the table with an attempt at casual surprise that inexplicably caused her hips to sway a ton. Man was she a terrible detective.

"Hey, Bren! What are you doing here?"

The mysterious blue-eyed hottie was staring at her. Without blinking. She tried to focus on her friend.

"Well, I am—" Brennan glanced at the man, "I am interviewing...that is..."

"What Doc here means to say is, appears like we should be the ones askin' that question, seeing as you were watching us an' all."

Playing cool was not working. But what was up with Bren?

New plan: honesty and aggression.

Angela smiled a big fake smile. "Okay, you got me," she said, looking for the first time directly into the man's eyes. "But see, my friend here," she gestured at Bren, "has been acting real weird lately, and I decided that it was my duty as her best friend and coworker to check up on her. She's been known to get herself into trouble."

"I do not get myself 'into trouble.' My position simply requires me to enter dangerous situations quite often."

The expression on mystery guy had started to take on a hint of amusement, whether directed at her or Bren she couldn't tell. She decided to push her luck.

"So anyway," she said, sliding her body as gracefully as she could into the booth beside Brennan. "What's your name?"

"Spike."

"Nice name."

He gave her a sort of friendly glare. "Angela, in'nit? How long've you know Doc, Angela?"

_Doc?_ _He had a pet name for her? Booth was so gonna kill this guy._ "Six years or so. How long have _you_ known her?"

He chuckled. "Twenty-four hours, give or take. Been a long twenty-four hours, though."

"Really? Do tell."

"Sorry, love. Even if I _was_ inclined towards explanation—which 'm not—don't think you'd be real likely to understand much uv it."

_Argh_. This was totally maddening. She tried to stare him down. He stared right back. He had extremely nice eyes.

"Guess you'll just hav ta live in the dark." He smiled an evil smile and leaned back onto the booth.

"Perhaps we should all go home?" Bren ventured.

Angela had almost forgotten that she was here. _Wait...she'd said something..._ "You said you were interviewing him? For a case?"

"Yes. That is it. For a case."

"Then why haven't you asked us to help? And what about today in the lab?"

"I can't tell you. It is, um, classified."

"Are you investigating the murders? Were those people today trying to stop you?" She was starting to sound like Jack. Shit.

"I—"

"And why isn't Booth with you?"

Spike looked up. "Where _is_ the great oaf? Or didn't 'e want to see me again?"

"It is not necessary for Booth to be here. And, at any rate, he is with Parker tonight. His son," she clarified.

"His son, eh? Buffy know—"

Brennan's phone buzzed, and she reached for it.

"Hello?"

Okay, seriously: who was this Buffy person? Or was Buffy a person at all? Maybe Buffy was some sort of secret organization?_ Aaand I sound like Jack again._

Angela leaned in, trying to catch the voice at the other end, but the man—she was sure it was a man—had a very soft voice.

"Yes, I called you."

Spike was sitting up again.

"I merely had some questions, but Spike volunteered to—...yes, he's here. Would you like to speak with him?"

Bren handed the phone to Spike.

"Can't bloody let me be for a night, can ya mate?"

He listened for a moment.

"Things didn't go so well with the slayer?...No, I read you mind with my sodding magical powers! 'M not an idiot. You an' the slayer get within leagues of each other and 'fore you can say 'soap opera' you've gone full-on Romeo."

_Slayer...?_

"S'not quantum...whatever. Seen it enough times. I refuse to play Mercutio again. Already got dead twice thanks ta you—"

_Wait, what?_ "Excuse me?"

"He is joking." Brennan was an absolutely terrible liar.

Spike smirked at Angela but continued with his conversation.

"Ah, but Peaches, you'd miss me terribly if I was a pile of ash."

An idea was forming in Angela's head. Things were starting to make sense.

"Wot? Don't go gettin' your panties in a knot, mate. She'll be fine."

_Time to go for it_. Angela looked Spike directly in the eye. "So you're a vampire, huh? Not as scary as I'd imagined."

Spike blinked. "Right, then. Seems as though I'd better...call you back." He snapped the phone shut, eyes locked on Angela.

She smiled. She had him.

The sound of pouring liquid pulled them out of their staring contest. Bren picked up her drink and smiled at Angela. "Good. I am not fond of lying to my friends." And she downed the drink in one gulp.

* * *

"Why didn't you take your phone? We've been trying to reach you."

_Because I didn't want anyone to reach me._ "Forgot it. What'cha got for me?" Buffy sat down heavily on the motel bed, causing it to bounce her up and down like she'd sat down on a very small trampoline. It was less dignified than she would have liked.

"Our Wiccas think they've located the senator. It took some doing—regular locator spells are being blocked by something. Still, we've got it."

Buffy looked down at the complex laces of her boots. Back up at Riley.

She made a displeased noise. "So what's the plan? Should I rally the troops?" _Please say no._

"Uh-uh. It's better if we catch them at dawn."

_Thank the Jesus_. Buffy began the long process of removing her boots.

There was a moment of silence. Riley seemed to be waiting for something. "Don't you want to know where the senator is?"

_Not really, no_. "Um, sure? Where is he?"

"The Jefferson Memorial."

"Oka—wait, repeat that?"

* * *

Parker had been tough tonight. Loud, rowdy, and dead set against doing his homework. Rebecca had been harried and less than overjoyed at this surprise mid-week visit. She'd given him odd looks all evening, asking _what are you doing here?_ with her eyes, concern and annoyance fighting for supremacy in the blue depths.

It had been an impulse—unexpected and overwhelming. He had needed his son.

He hadn't understood until a few hours after he'd arrived, when Parker, desperate to focus on anything but long division, had looked up at him and asked "Are you and Bones gonna catch another bad guy soon?" Booth hadn't known what to say. Because the thing was, they weren't gonna catch these bad guys. Against a vampire he was as powerless as Parker would be against a murder suspect. It was why he'd needed so badly to see his son, to touch him. The universe had suddenly and irrevocably flipped on its head, and when he'd finally got his bearings in this new upside-down world, Booth had realized something: he no longer felt safe.

He wasn't worried for himself—he was nothing if not a survivor—but Parker...

This was not the stable, right-side-up world he'd thought to bequeath to his son. This was a world he couldn't trust, a world that at any moment could shift again under his feet. And take his son with it.

He'd helped Rebecca with the dishes, watched football with Parker, and had an argument with him about the appropriate bedtime for a fifth-grader, all the while in a state of quiet terror.

Driving home through the well-lit suburban neighborhood he was still terrified—of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and most of all of the day when an older Parker, confident in his strong young limbs, would wander out onto a dark street and bump into a cold stranger...

Booth had to chill out. He could—_would—_protect his son. He just needed to figure out how.

He parked at his apartment and stepped out of the standard-issue SUV, breathing deep, hoping to calm his heartbeat. He needed to sleep tonight. He felt as if he'd run a hundred miles while someone (Billy Idol?) ran behind him, chucking rocks at various body parts. Or maybe that was one of the many things he'd dreamed last night...

Something small and sharp slid along the side of his neck.

He spun, all his instincts kicking in in full force, his hand shooting to his gun...

It wasn't there. He was pathologically careful not to wear it with Parker. A moment of blind panic, and then he was pined against the wall of the building, blinking into yellow eyes. The sharp thing was resting casually below his adam's apple.

"Shhh," said a musical voice, "Only wanted to see." The yellow eyes blinked. A small smile appeared. "Would you like to be my daddy?"


	14. The Believer in the Skeptic

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author: **random shoes**  
Disclaimer: **It all belongs to M.E. not me.**  
Spoilers: **Nope. Guess what? The X-Files exists. **  
Author's Note: **Hello all! Yes, I realize I suck at posting within anything resembling a reasonable time frame. This thing happened to me wherein I discovered BBC Sherlock and Downton Abbey in the same month. That's my only excuse. Well, and school and work and Real Life.  
So here's a shorter one for you, finishing out the night for Brennan and Spike and Angela. Tomorrow all hell breaks loose, but tonight: drinks!

* * *

_The Believer in the Skeptic_

Temperance watched Spike and Angela stare at each other. Prolonged eye-contact, no movement, minimal blinking. Classic non-verbal power struggle. Spike's casual slouch was gone, replaced with a straight spine and a wary interest. Angela's lips were turned up. An indication of dominance.

Spike was the first to speak, surrendering the fight. "Got somethin' you wanna ask, love?"

"C'mon. No point in the act. Bren just confirmed it."

Spike relaxed back into his alpha male sprawl. Temperance offered him the bottle. He shook his head.

"You're sharp, pet."

"Didn't you hear? I help Mulder and Scully solve crimes."

A pop culture reference. Angela wanted her to look blank, say _I don't know what that means_. But she did know what that meant. Booth had explained it to her once: it was a television show following two FBI agents as they solved "supernatural" crime together. And refused to admit they were in love. That's what he'd said, that they were "in love," as if it was an absolute fact. Why did everyone assume that just because two people were partners—

"What, exactly, do you do for the dream team?"

"Art."

"Right. So, Angela the Artist, tell me how you sussed out my little secret. And..." His voice dropped, "...why you're not _real_ anxious to be somewhere else?" He tilted his head and flashed his entirely human teeth at Angela.

"Well, first of all, the outfit. It's pretty retro. You're too young—well, you look too young—to be reliving those particular glory days. Your fashion sense is stuck in the eighties for some reason, and I'm guessing it's because you died in them."

Spike laughed. "Not quite."

"Really? When—"

"What else?"

"The rest is simple. You said something about a slayer on the phone, then that you'd already died, and at the end there something about being 'a pile of ash.' You practically broadcast it."

"S'pose I did. Thing is, not many people are tuned t'a that pa'ticular frequency."

"And to answer your last question, I chose not to run screaming from the room because, whatever I may say, Bren isn't stupid, or suicidal, and she clearly isn't afraid of you. That, and, if you _are_ dangerous, the running would just make you chase me."

Temperance couldn't help feeling that Angela wouldn't mind if Spike chased her.

Spike smirked at her friend. "That's not all, though. But I'll let it go. What I really want to know isn't how you know about vampires. I want to know why you _believe_ it. 'Cause the thing is, most people don't believe that sorta stuff. Most people _won't_ believe it, even if it's starin' them in the face."

Angela smirked back at him. Temperance was starting to feel that she was intruding somehow.

"Let's just say I have reason to believe there's more to the world than meets the eye."

The corner of his mouth turned up. One eyebrow rose. He waited.

Temperance poured another drink and stared at it. It was irresponsible to drink this much.

Angela shifted, breaking eye contact with Spike. So this time he'd won.

On the other hand, it was also irresponsible to meet a vampire in a bar, alone. Brennan reached for her drink, but Angela was there first, sliding it smoothly across the table.

"Angela?" she said, her voice a little rough. "What are you—"

Angela stared at the drink. Stared the way she stared at paintings. No, the way Temperance stared at a skeleton—like she expected it to tell her something.

She felt off balance. She wanted her drink. No, she didn't. She just wanted Angela to stop staring at it. Nothing was happening. Nothing should happen. Why did Angela look like she expected something to—

The whiskey started to ripple. Small ripples at first, as if tiny fish were moving below the surface. Then the ripples stopped, and the waves started. Small, round waves of golden liquid, up and down, up and down, but not a drop out of place, waves as smooth as molten glass that moved with the freedom of liquid. It was as if the molecules in her drink had fused into one connected mass, and it was breathing. Temperance wasn't.

Then the golden mass started to rise, out of the glass and into the air, still moving softly to its own internal tide, pulsing upwards until it reached the level of Brennan's nose. She could smell the alcohol wafting off it, and see right through it, through the golden waves and all the way to Angela's small, satisfied smile. Then Angela moved her head—the most delicate little drift, and the mass floated gently over to the open mouth of the bottle, stretched and molded itself into a perfect cylinder—and dropped down into its original home with a clean little "plop."

Angela patted her shoulder. "I think maybe you've had enough."

Spike snorted. "A witch, huh? Couldna just come out and said it?"

"That was more fun."

"Show-off."

Spike and Angela were smiling at each other. Brennan felt very cold, and very alone.

She glanced at the whiskey bottle. Something began to rise, up through her stomach and into her chest. Panic.

"No."

They both turned to her, confused. Temperance couldn't explain. She didn't understand.

She stood up, as best she could between the booth and the table.

"No," she said again. "No."

"Doc?"

"Bren? What do you mean, 'No'?"

Angela stood up too, reaching for her arm, but Temperance pushed past her, knocking Angela back down in the process.

"I—I apologize. I need to go."

And then she was out the door and heading for her car. _I don't understand,_ she thought. _I don't understand._

* * *

Angela stood, frozen, watching Brennan disappear through the door of the bar. She should follow her. She should really follow her. She looked back at Spike, who was shaking his head in exaggerated confusion, blue eyes bright with amusement.

She wasn't going to follow her.

"That was..."

"Odd?"

"Off the scale. I've never seen her act like that before."

"Not to pry, but shouldn't you be going after her?"

Angela shook her head and slid back into the booth, a little farther than before. A little closer to Spike. "No. She's gone by now, and anyway it was _me_ that freaked her out."

"Yeah, you probably shouldna done magic 'round the Doc."

"Why not? She—she knew about vampires already, didn't she?"

"Vampires are..." The corner of his mouth twisted up, "...safer. She can analyze vampires, come up with medical explanations, behavior patterns, stuff like that. Study us like any other species. Pretend. She's a scientist, luv—"

"I _know_ that—"

"And you, you just broke the laws of physics right under her nose."

_Oh._ _Oh God._ She hadn't thought how...scary her world might be to Brennan. She hadn't thought at all. _Terrible friend. Horrible._ It took Angela a moment to pull herself away from that thought and focus on the flirting at hand. And another moment to feel guilty for putting flirting above best friend...ing. So yeah, terrible friend.

"Hold on, you said you'd only known her for a day. You're pretty insightful, for a vampire."

"Doc's not exactly inscrutable."

"No, guess not."

"And who says vamps aren't insightful? We'd be right terrible predators if we didn't understand our prey." Spike looked at her on the word 'predator.' Angela felt a thrill of fear. She leaned closer. No one ever said she was prudent.

"Should I be nervous?"

"Are you?"

_Yes. No. Did turned-on count?_

"Well, my best friend did seem remarkably comfortable with you, right up until _I_ sent her fleeing from the room."

"Trust her judgement?" Wow, those were cheekbones. Yes, those were really, really cheekbones.

"Yes. Well, sometimes?"

Spike's eyebrows did a thing. An indecently attractive thing. _Was she supposed to say something now?_

"I thought all that vampire and, um, slayer stuff was made up."

"Says the witch."

"Yeah. Teach me to assume anything. But all the stuff I read claimed vampires were totally—"

"Evil?"

"Yeah."

"Little raping, little pillaging, and then suddenly you humans pull out the pitchforks, and the crosses, and the holy water—"

"Um..." Angela didn't know what to make of that. It seemed like he was joking and it seemed like he wasn't. "Have you—"

"Yes."

"You don't know what I was gonna ask."

"Doesn't matter. I've done it."

Okay, now she really should be afraid. Like, actually afraid. Except she wasn't. She'd like to pretend it was because she'd recently mastered the art of conjuring fire. She'd like to pretend.

But there was something she wanted to know, in light of all the (mutual) (she hoped) flirting. "How old are you?"

Spike sat back. Away from her. "Look, Doc already played twenty questions with me. Older than you, f'that's the question. Older than your grandfather, truth be told."

That should be weirder than it was. Thing was, the cheekbones were overriding the weird. And the eyes were helping. And the body. And the voice. And the smile.

Angela pretended to think about it. "I just broke up with a younger guy, so a grandfather could make a nice change."

"Oi! Didn't say I _was_ a grandfather, just said I was _old enough_ to be."

"But it's possible, right? Before you became a vampire—"

"No."

"How can you be—"

"Look, Miss..."

"Montenegro."

"Like I said, I thought this would be a lark, but I've been playing trained monkey for a bit too long, and m'not anxious to go over it all again with you."

Angela's heart sank. She'd gone too far, and now he was angry. "I didn't mean to—"

"But," he held up a hand, "because I'm feeling a bit magnanimous today, and because," searing blue eyes, "I like you, you get one more question."

Angela didn't even have to think about it. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Spike made a short sound of amusement deep in his throat. "No. I am not seeing anyone." And he stood up.

Angela struggled awkwardly out of the booth and to her feet. "Wait, you're leaving?"

"Got someone I need to check on." He turned away, stopped, turned back, and swiftly closed the gap between them. He leaned in. His face was barely two inches away. Angela didn't breath.

"It was nice meeting you, Angela Montenegro." He leaned in just the smallest bit more...

and was gone in a swirl of worn leather.

Angela blinked, then swore.

Why wasn't there a female variant for 'cock tease'? She could do with a phrase like that.


	15. Dawn in DC

**Title: **Life With the Dead**  
Author:** randomshoes**  
Disclaimer: **No one/nothing belongs to me, yaddayaddayadda**  
Spoilers: **...huh. We've reached a point where all of the spoilers are for _this story_, and not the actual _shows. _Odd, but I feel this is an accomplishment, of sorts.**  
Author's Note: **Let's play a game: it's called "Spot the Idea That, In Retrospect, Was Clearly Influenced by a Doctor Who 'Comic Relief' Short."  
And yes, I know I'm TERRIBLE at updating. Thanks to everyone who sticks around and reads me anyway. I love you all very much, and hope I make you happy when I occasionally manage to get my act together.

Here we go...

* * *

_Dawn in D.C._

One of the (very few) upsides to being a professional slayer was that it rarely involved mornings. Slaying was an up-all-night, sleep-all-day kind of job, and it suited Buffy just fine. It was like living perpetually on college student time.

Except today it was an up-all-night, _up_-all-day kind of job, and that suited Buffy not at all. Wasn't there some expression about burning candles on...something? Whatever. Her motel room had actual lights anyway, which incidentally were _on_, because the sun had yet to show. _Stupid Riley and his stupid...finding kidnapped people._ Yeah. Slaying was also a job you couldn't exactly call in sick for. You could pass out and be hospitalized and still end up fighting creepy demon death things. What was she thinking about again? Oh yeah, getting her ass out of—

"Buffy? Are you still in bed? We've got to go!"

"Mmm."

"Commander Finn said we should get there while it's still dark so we can maybe catch them going in for the night and see where they're hiding."

"Mm-hm." _Commander Finn? Oh, right. Riley._

"Dawn's coming in less than two hours!"

"Dawn...?" Buffy momentarily pictured her little sister before it dawned (argh) on her what Vi really meant. "Oh." She sat up and rubbed her face. There were traces of makeup still clinging to her eyelids. "S'an annoying name," she muttered into her hands.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm taking a shower now. Go away."

* * *

Temperance woke to a ringing phone. It hurt. She wished to go back to sleep. She wished the phone would stop ringing. It did. She turned over. The phone began ringing again. She decided she would turn it off.

Gently, she rolled over and retrieved the phone from her nightstand. Her windows were dark.

"ANGEL," the screen informed her.

"Eguh," she informed her bedroom, and pressed 'talk.'

"Yes?"

"Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes."

"I hate to bother you—"

"Yes."

"But is Spike there?"

"I am in my bedroom."

There was a long pause. Temperance started to fall asleep. "And Spike isn't there?"

This woke her up a bit. "If you are suggesting that Spike and I have had sex, the answer is no."

"Good. That is, do you know where he might be?"

"No."

"You were with him last night."

Temperance looked at her windows. "It is still night."

"Well, very early morning, in fact, but—"

"Spike is missing." She sat up, resigned to consciousness.

"Yes. No. He's Spike, he...well, but the sun is coming up. Soon."

It took her sleep-addled brain a moment to understand the significance of this. _Vampires. Sun._ Her headache intensified. "You are worried about him."

"No."

"You are not worried about him."

"Of course I don't want him to, uh, burst into flames. At least, not right now...the point is that there are some very powerful forces in this town that are, let's say, not happy with us, and recently he hasn't made a habit of staying out all day, so I'm...worried about him."

The content and manner of this short speech raised more than a few questions. Temperance didn't ask any of them. She found—for the first time in her life—that she didn't want the answers. She simply waited for Angel to speak again.

"I need to know where you two were last night. I need to get there as soon as possible. See if I can find out where he's gone."

Temperance was fully awake now. She glanced at the clock. 5:34. Sunrise would be in less than an hour. Angel didn't have much time. She imagined Spike bursting into flames. She felt a twinge in the pit of her stomach. She replaced her imagined Spike with an imagined Angel. The twinge got bigger.

"We were at a bar. I'll meet you there."

"You don't need to—"

"Sunrise is in 43 minutes. My car has tinted windows."

She could hear breath being exhaled on the other side of the phone. This time she didn't bother to wonder why he did that. It didn't really matter. "Thank you, Dr. Brennan." Angel's gratitude did matter, just a little.

She gave him the address.

* * *

This didn't make sense, and not in a whimsical, Lucy-in-the-Sky-With-Diamonds kind of way. This didn't make sense in a super-villain-death-trap kind of way. The Jefferson Memorial was the absolute wrong place to hide _anything_, let alone a demon lair. It was so big and open and—and _well lit_. Not to mention flooded with tourists all day every day. Well, except today. Riley had made sure no one would be coming anywhere near it today. People were being told it needed "maintenance." It still freaked Buffy out that he had the kind of power to close a national monument, no questions asked. Then again, Buffy herself had a lot of power these days. They were generals, the both of them. Only, Riley was, well, better at it.

At the moment he was issuing orders from his crouch in the bush beside her, whispering confidently into his headset. He was sending his soldiers around the "perimeter" to ensure that no "hostiles" made it in or out. (Riley still used this word, to Buffy's...concern? Amusement? Both?) Buffy's job was to lead the slayers into the building and see what might be seen. At Buffy's signal, or if there was any sound of fighting, the cavalry (okay they didn't have horses, but still) would rush in and, if they were lucky, overpower whatever was guarding the senator. That was the part she didn't like: that they didn't know what they were fighting. On the scale of bad that ranked somewhere between birthdays and giant mayor-snakes.

The monument didn't look dangerous; it looked inviting. The bright white stone and yellow lights made the pre-dawn sky seem a beautiful, deep blue in contrast. Jefferson stood serenely in the center, waiting for sunrise and his flood of admirers. Every corner of the place was illuminated, as if to say _nothing here._ Of course, that meticulous lighting would make it impossible for them to sneak up on anything. They could have turned it off, but that would have warned anything present of their...presence. Argh. Words were angry at Buffy today. Even more than they usually were.

"At least nothing will be able to sneak up on _us._" she whispered to Riley.

"Wouldn't bet on that, actually," said a voice behind her.

* * *

Angel was pacing in front of the darkened bar exactly like a dog searching for a scent. Temperance opened her mouth to ask a question—about the possible animalistic nature of vampires, or the nature of their olfactory powers—but then stopped herself. Vampires were not animals. Neither were they humans. Vampires belonged to a different category, a category she didn't want to name, or even to think about. A category she wished with all her being she had never encountered.

Angel jerked his head. He'd found it. Temperance followed him across the street, down the block and around a corner, an officer with a sniffer dog. She wondered where Booth was, how he was handling this new world. It would be easier for him. He believed in magic already, although he'd kill her for calling it that. The God in the sky, the Devil in the ground, and the angels. It abruptly occurred to her that Angel, born in 18th century Ireland, had very likely been raised Catholic. Just like Booth. Could it truly be a coincidence? His name, too. _Angel_. Perhaps he had chosen his name out of some religious feeling...

Something was trickling back. Her confidence, or perhaps her curiosity. Whatever it was, it made her feel more herself. She would be Dr. Temperance Brennan, even in the face of magic. She would ask her questions.

"Angel, I was wondering about—"

"Lost it! Damn!"

"Lost it?"

"He must have got into a car." Angel rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, that stupid motorcycle. He said he didn't steal it, but if I know Spike..."

"Angel?"

"Sorry, yes. Is there anything else you can think of, Dr. Brennan? Anything that might help?" His jaw was twitching inhumanly fast, his mouth almost buzzing from closed lips to bared teeth to closed lips. He looked like a nervous animal.

"Angel, what's wrong?"

"The sun. The sun is coming up."

"Oh. What _exactly_ happens when—"

"We burn," he said shortly. "What did you talk about? Did he say where he was going?"

"No. However..."

"However?"

"I...left before he did."

"Oh." Angel deflated. Temperance realized she had to tell him about last night. Some of it, at any rate.

"But I left him with a friend of mine. Angela."

Angel's eyes, which up until now had been darting wildly around, focused firmly on hers. "Angela?"

* * *

"Spike? What—"

Riley's crossbow spun swiftly around to point directly at Spike's heart. "Don't move."

"Didn' realize _you_ were in town." Spike was standing behind them, looking casual and rather conspicuous. Riley was kneeling in a bush, crossbow-wielding arm resting on his upright knee, eyes on his target and his target alone. Spike gave Riley a once-over, eyebrow raised. "Still playing soldier, are we?"

"This is _my_ town."

That made Buffy want to laugh. _Don't let Booth hear you say that._

Spike craned his neck, playacting a search. "Guess I missed all the 'Riley's Town' signs, then?"

_So it was gonna be one of _those_ days, was it?_ Buffy had to fight the urge to walk away and let them kill each other. It would certainly ease the strain in her calves. Instead she turned her head towards Riley. "He's not evil. You know, if you care. Also: _shhh_. And Spike, get the hell down."

This drew Riley's gaze. And his suspicion. "You knew he was here?" Then that last part sunk in, and he lowered his voice, "And you didn't tell me?"

"Know how you feel, mate," Spike said, ducking into the bush. He looked rather comical, squatting. Buffy almost wanted to laugh.

She didn't. "What are you doing here, Spike?"

Embarrassed Spike. That was a rare one. "Followed you," he said, under his breath.

"Just like old times," Riley muttered, and turned back to face the monument, pressing his ear like a character in a spy movie. "Everyone in position?"

No way was Buffy done with Spike yet. "What possessed you to...Spike, if we need your help, we'll ask for it."

"Really? Since when?"

"We have this under con—"

The rest of the word was lost in an ear-splitting _crash_ from inside the monument. Buffy spun around, stake at the ready. She felt Spike tense behind her. The phrase _old times_ echoed through her mind in the instant before Riley hissed "MOVE," into his headset.

The surrounding foliage exploded with movement as thirty people rushed towards the sound.

Buffy held back for a moment, searching her surroundings for any hint of an external ambush. Nothing. She sighed._"_Note to Buffy: never attempt that sentence again."

She felt Spike's laughter rumble behind her as they charged up the steps.

* * *

"And your friend Angela got along well with Spike, I presume?"

"I—I suppose so."

Angel seemed to have relaxed considerably, although Temperance couldn't begin to imagine why. He tilted his head toward the car. "Take me back?"

"What about Spike?"

"You'll find him at your friend's house."

"I will—Oh. Of course. You believe that Spike and Angela had sex last night. Is Spike prone to sex with near strangers?"

Angel made a choked noise, perhaps a laugh. "You're not one for euphemisms, are you?"

"Euphemisms make it difficult to speak with precision and clarity. Do you not wish to ensure your friend's safety?"

"Can you open the car with that...button thing? The sun's coming."

Temperance did as Angel asked, and he slide into the back seat. She walked around the car, extracting her phone from her purse as she went.

"Look," she told him, settling into the driver's seat, "It will take me less than a minute to call Angela. I would be more comfortable having direct proof."

"Would she tell you the truth?"

"She is also 'not one for euphemisms.'"

"Ah."

Temperance tried her home phone first. It rang. It rang some more. It went to voicemail.

"Hey. You've reached Angela Montenegro. Please leave a message after the—" Her voice was interrupted by the tone. Angela had told Temperance once that this was charming and humorous. Temperance believed her.

"Spike? Spike? If you are there, Angel wishes to speak with you and ensure your safety. Spike?" She waited a moment, then hung up.

"That was indelicate," Angel muttered from the backseat.

She ignored him and dialed Angela's cell. Voicemail again.

"Hey. You've reached Angela Montenegro. Please leave a message after the—" _Beeeep_.

"Angela. I wish to know if you and Spike had sex last night, or, failing that, if you have any information about his whereabouts. It is nearly sunrise and his..._friend_ is worried. Please return this call as soon as possible." She hung up, tossed her phone onto the passenger seat, and started the car.

"Um, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you mention the sunrise to her?"

She pulled out and turned in the direction of Angel's...well..._current residence_. "I wanted to explain to her why it was so urgent."

"Why would that explain—you didn't _tell_ her, did you?" Angel's voice deepened in timbre considerably. It made Temperance nervous.

"She deduced it for herself."

"How could she—no. Let's start from the beginning. What happened last night?"

* * *

"Huh," said Buffy.

"Right," said Spike.

"Where are they?!" hissed Riley, into his headset.

The monument was deserted. That awkward, well-lit kind of deserted that belongs to closing department stores and streetlight-flooded playgrounds. The effect was strangely enhanced by the circle of slayers and soldiers frozen in confusion, all holding weapons, none sure where to point them. _This was not of the good. This was not near the good. This was not in the same galaxy as the good. _

"_Stay alert_. The hostiles must be somewhere."

"Uh, mate? I don' think—"

The world moved. That's what it felt like. It didn't exactly shake—there was no back and forth to it—it was more like it stepped to the side. And stayed there.

Still, it was enough like an earthquake to force a small, panicked noise out of Buffy.

In an instant Spike's hand was on her forearm. The spinning stopped. The anchor settled. Buffy snapped into action.

"Andrew. Take Vi and Erin and—and—what's your name?"

"Mòrag."

"Take Vi, Erin, and Scottish Girl and search around the monument. Make sure nothing is hiding anywhere."

Riley gestured at two of his soldiers. "Go with them."

Buffy nodded in his direction. "Yes. Everyone else, search this place. Whatever you can think of. Trap doors, invisible walls, anything magic-y or otherwise suspicious. _Go_."

They did. Slayers to examine the statue and soldiers to tap on the floor and Andrew and Vi and Erin and Scottish girl to..._vanish?_

Six people had walked towards the steps. No people were on the steps.

"Jesus," said Spike.

"Oh God," said Buffy.

Spike's hand returned to her arm.

* * *

"You didn't you tell me she was a witch!"

"You didn't ask. At any rate I just discovered it myself, last night. And as you didn't see fit to inform me of the existence of...witches, which is clearly necessary information—"

"Turn the car around."

"Excuse me?"

"We're going to the Jeffersonian."

* * *

"Excuse me," said Andrew's voice, from behind them, "But does anybody know what just happened?"

There was a silence. It was stunned.

Slowly, Buffy, Spike, and Riley turned, stepped to the side, and peeked around Thomas Jefferson.

Six people stood on the exact opposite side of the monument. All mildly disoriented, all completely unhurt.

"You feel at all good about this, pet?"

_No. No no no no _"No."

"I suppose this isn't a good time to mention that the sun is coming up?"

"No."

Riley put his hand to his ear. "Was anyone watching—" At this point Spike snatched Riley's headset, spun around, and flung it, pitcher-like, in the direction of the stairs.

"Hey!" said Riley.

"Ouch!" said Andrew, and rubbed the back of his head.

The headset clattered to the floor at Vi's feet. She picked it up, glanced behind her, and turned back to examine it.

"Where did this come from?" She wondered to herself.

"Fuck," said Riley. Buffy stared at him in shock.

"Well look at that: Soldier Boy knows a dirty word."

* * *

Angela arrived at work with an aching head, a churning stomach, and a distinct feeling of guilt. Bren was not on the platform. Or in her office. Or anywhere else. The feeling of guilt intensified.

As she stood in the middle of the lab, wondering what to do next, Cam marched towards her, high-heels clacking.

"Cam, do you know where—"

"No," said Cam shortly, and clacked off.

"Kay..." Angela muttered, treading gingerly in the direction of her office.

Jack Hodgins was inside, wearing the rapidly blinking eyes and bouncing legs of a small boy intent on sharing. Or possibly urinating.

She pressed one finger carefully to either side of her nose. "Yes, Jack?"

"Have you seen Booth? I think I've figured out who our mysterious men—well, women too—um, _people_ in uniform were. It's a shadowy government branch, used to be known as 'The Initia—"

"No."

"What?"

"No, I haven't seen Booth."

"Oh, well do you know—"

"Why don't we just call him?" She reached for the desk phone, then realized. "I need his cell number."

"Isn't it in your phone?"

"Yes, it is in my phone. My phone, unfortunately, is in my apartment."

"You forgot it?"

"Yes."

Jack pulled out his phone, touched a few buttons, and handed it to her. "Use mine."

She did.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

"Hodgins?" said a hoarse Booth.

"No, it's—" She was interrupted by a confused clattering, as if the phone had fallen to the floor. There was a pause, a rustling, woman's laughter. Then the quiet _tap_ of the phone disconnecting.

She closed the phone. Jack stared at her expectantly.

Angela felt her lips stretch into a smile, as if against her will. The guilt vanished. "I think he has a woman over."

Jack stared at her. "And...?"

"And Dr. Brennan is _late_."

A twin smile spread across Jack's face. She couldn't remember the last time they'd smiled at each other like this.

Yes she could. She absolutely could.

Something in Angela's smile changed. Its purpose, or its direction. Suddenly she was smiling _at_ Jack. And he was smiling at her.

* * *

"I don't—"

"It's a loop," Riley was telling Andrew, "A space loop. Exit on one side and you find yourself entering on the opposite side."

_No service._

"Cool! Like Pacman?"

"Um, sure?"

_No service._

"So," said Andrew in his cheery, Most-Likely-to-Make-Buffy-Hit-Me voice, "How do we escape?"

"Yeah," said Riley, and walked off to confer with his soldiers.

Buffy checked her phone, yet again. _No service._ She shook it. _No service._ She held the phone up in front of her and began walking around the "perimeter." _No service. _

"Think you're likely to get anywhere with that?"

Spike was leaning against the Southeast wall with an attempt at casual indifference. Buffy knew instantly that he was nervous as hell.

"And what're you doing that's so productive?"

"Not bursting into flames."

Buffy looked out at the blue-black sky, then back at Spike.

"Sunrise is coming," he insisted.

"You've been saying that."

"Because it's true. I can feel it."

Buffy looked back down at her phone. "Well you've been feeling it for a really long ti—oh." _She'd been so focused on the tiny service bars that she hadn't noticed—_

"Buffy?" said Vi's voice, "Can you—"

"I'm busy," Buffy told her, eyes locked on her phone.

"Oh, okay." Vi's footsteps receded. "Andrew? Can you explain what's going on? No one will talk to me."

_6:13._

"Of course, dear slayer! You must only ask your devoted watcher and he will deliver. You see, we're in a loop..."

_6:13._

"Buffy," said Spike's voice, next to her ear, "What's wrong?"

"Shh!" _ 6:13._

"...out the opposite end, just like in Pacman! So you see..."

_6:13._

"Nothing can get out..."

_6:14—_

"...and nothing can get in!"

_6:13._

She felt Spike stiffen. "Slayer? Ever wondered how those ghosts got into the game in the first place?"

She looked up. "Wha—"

Something very tall, and very hairy, and very, very angry stood at the top of the stairs. As Buffy watched, another tall hairy angry thing flashed into existence, as if it had stepped through an invisible barrier.

"Hostiles!" shouted Riley, and the room became a sea of charging people.

Thirty seconds later, as Buffy ducked under Spike's arm and swung her axe at a tall hairy angry ankle, something occurred to her.

"Spike," she shouted, above the chaos, "You've played Pacman?"

The sound of connecting punches and laughter drifted over her shoulder. "What else d'ya think I do with eternity?"


End file.
